


With Loves Like These

by glorious_spoon



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/F, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Relationship Negotiation, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2020-12-21 11:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21074147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: The Lightwood family used to be an up and coming power in the criminal underworld. Now Robert and Maryse are in prison, Alec has become a law-abiding citizen, and Isabelle is trying to hold together what’s left of the family business while navigating an increasingly complicated romance with a beautiful artist who happens to be the daughter of a cop.And then a battered former spy named Magnus Bane comes crashing into their lives and turns everything upside-down…(A Burn Notice AU)





	1. Brewed Awakenings

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the Immortal Bang, but since that challenge has been called off, I’m posting it as a WIP. It is finished, more or less, and in the process of being edited; I’m going to try to get a chapter up every week.
> 
> This is loosely inspired by the USA Network show Burn Notice, but only very loosely. You shouldn't really need to know anything about it to follow this.
> 
> With many thanks to Jena for beta-reading, Netta for the title, Jilly for encouragement and cheerleading, and Mindy for coming up with the idea of a coffee-shop/spy AU many months ago on Twitter and giving me permission to run with it.
> 
> Hashtag on Twitter is [#WLLTFic](https://twitter.com/hashtag/WLLTFic?src=hashtag_click) if you’d like to chat about it there. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

It probably says something really unfortunate about Magnus’s life that this isn’t the worst situation he’s ever found himself in. Probably not even in the top ten, although it’s inching up the ranks with every minute that ticks by without a response from his handlers. All he has going for him is the fact that Kuznetsov wants his money badly enough to keep Magnus alive for now, but that’s a grace period with a definite end point. The only thing on the other end of the line when he called it in was dead air, and he doesn’t need an official pink slip to know what happened here. He's been burned. 

Goddamnit, he _knew_ Ragnor was being squirrely at that last hand-off. Should have seen it coming, really.

He eyes the stone-faced Russian spinning the cylinder of a .45 against one large thumb. The ticking sound of metal on metal seems very loud in the quiet room. The man’s pale eyes are icy as he glares at Magnus like he’s an especially irritating breed of vermin instead of a very charming and well-dressed man who is, okay, _currently_ handcuffed to the radiator of this low-rent motel room in Panama City. It’s a temporary situation.

Possibly this does make the top ten after all. Especially considering what Kuznetsov is going to do to Magnus when he gets back and his money still isn’t here.

Time to start considering other options, then.

“Is not looking good for you, pretty boy,” the Russian observes, spinning the cylinder of his revolver again. _Tick tick tick tick_ over the hum of flies and the stuffy silence. The air is so hot and thick that it feels like he’s breathing soup.

Magnus bats his eyes even though he’s concussed and sweating through his bespoke suit and is honestly not at his best right now. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“What? I don’t—” The man’s face reddens, tense and angry and embarrassed. Perfect.

“Oh, you don’t need to be shy, darling, it’s just us here.”

“If you think I’m going to let you go because you—” the man makes a vague, sharp gesture with the hand holding the gun. “Flirt, you are mistaken.”

“Who said anything about letting me go?” Magnus asks, tilting his head to bare his throat. “We can have plenty of fun like this.”

The man’s red face twists. He slaps the cylinder to still it, unfolding out of his chair, a mountain of sloping muscle in a sweat-stained gray t-shirt and jeans that have an impressive collection of dubious stains. His mouth works like he’s chewing the word thoroughly before he spits it out. “Fun.”

Magnus smiles his most flirtatious, infuriating smile and lets his eyes drift over the man as though he likes what he sees. Which, granted, he does have a thing for tall men, but he generally likes his a bit cleaner and less murderous. “Surely you’ve heard of fun?”

The man snarls and steps forward, and Magnus allows his smile to harden, satisfied.

The thing is, it doesn’t much matter if he wants Magnus or just wants to shut him up. He won’t actually shoot him until his boss gets back, and every other method he might apply, from the deeply unsavory to the good, clean punch to the jaw—

Well. Those all require him getting within striking distance. And Magnus’s legs aren’t cuffed to anything.

The man draws his fist back—he is going for the punch after all, then. He takes that second crucial step forward, and Magnus kicks out hard, sweeping his legs from under him. He hits the floor with a crash that shakes the room. The gun skitters away across the carpet and the man snarls, rolling for it. Magnus kicks him again, hears bone crack and an agonized howl. An instant later he has the man’s throat between his legs, squeezing ruthlessly tight as flailing hands claw at him. He can feel a feral smile stretching his mouth, the handcuff grinding into his wrist as the struggles falter, become less coordinated, stop.

Magnus holds on just a little bit longer to be sure, but the guy is out cold. He lets the body drop to the carpet with a limp thud and tugs him closer with his free hand, rifling through his pockets until he finds the key to the handcuffs. A moment later, he’s free, twisting his wrist and wincing. He scoops up the gun and contemplates the unconscious man on the carpet.

He could just shoot him now, but that hardly seems sporting. Anyway, the poor bastard is already going to be in enough trouble once Kuznetsov gets back and finds Magnus gone. In the end, he handcuffs the man to his own spot on the radiator with a piece of duct tape slapped over his mouth to keep him from alerting housekeeping before Magnus is on his way. A quick search of the rest of his pockets produces a wallet and a cellphone. He pockets those along with the handcuff keys and takes himself out the door just as the guard starts to twitch and mumble his way back to consciousness.

It’s the work of a few minutes to unlock the phone, and once he does he dials Catarina’s number from memory. The first time, it rings into silence. The second time, the voice that answers is definitely not Cat’s.

“I need to talk to Catarina Loss,” Magnus says in a rush. “I know it’s not a secure line, I’ve been—”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the stranger says coolly. “There’s nobody by that name here. You must have the wrong number.”

“I do not have the wrong number,” Magnus says tightly. “I need to talk to Cat. She’s my handler, I’ve known her for twenty years, she has a daughter named—”

Dead air. Magnus swears in half a dozen languages, then lets out a breath, getting himself back under control, and dials another number.

He’ll never, ever admit to the rush of relief that goes through him at the sound of the line picking up, Ragnor’s familiar dry British tones. “Hello? Hello, who is this?”

“Ragnor, my dear,” Magnus says brightly, rotating his wrist and wincing. Definitely sprained. Probably not broken. That’s likely the best he can hope for right now. That and a quick ride out of here. “It’s Magnus. I expect you remember that tiny favor I did you in Cartagena back in—what was it, 2010?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line, followed by outraged squawking. Magnus allows himself to grin. “I thought so. I’d like to cash in my chips on that, so to speak. I need a transport out of Panama City, as soon as you can arrange it. Sooner. I’ve made several people very unhappy today.”

* * *

The transport Ragnor arranges for him—after much swearing and huffing and general offense—turns out to be out of a small private airfield an hour away, and it takes more concentration than Magnus would like to make the drive without drifting off the road into a tree. Bright sparks of pain are blooming behind his eyes by the time he stumbles out to find a small plane and an impatient woman in a flight suit waiting.

“You Ragnor’s friend?” she asks shortly.

“Magnus Bane,” he says, with as winning a smile as he can manage. Not very, by the dubious look she gives him. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Dot,” she says. “Let’s get out of here before anybody else shows up to try to kill you.”

“What a lovely idea,” Magnus agrees breathlessly, and follows her to the plane. “Where are we going?”

“New York,” Dot says shortly, and Magnus nods. He can work with that. Most of his connections that far north are years old, but he still has a few. Isabelle was still in the business the last time he heard. She owes him a favor or two, and she’s probably not working with Kuznetsov. She has more scruples than that, or at least she did. And her operation these days is too small to attract much attention.

It’s not ideal, but his options rarely are. He’ll make it work.

He manages to keep his eyes open while Dot runs through her preflight check with a reassuring degree of confidence, but the headache is settling into his skull, which feels thick and bruised. He tilts his head back against the hard seat and closes his eyes.

“Don’t die,” he hears Dot say, sounding like she’s speaking from underwater. “Ragnor will be really pissed off if you do.”

Magnus waves a hand. “I’m fine, my dear. Carry on.”

“Right,” she mutters, and then the plane is roaring to life, a vibration that seems to swallow the entire world. He feels the wheels lift off the ground, and then he’s slipping away, the world is slipping away into darkness.

* * *

Brewed Awakenings usually gets a mad rush of under-caffeinated college students right after the last class section of the day lets out, which is, at least in theory, a good thing. Alec likes his job. He loves the shop, the coffee-and-sugar smell of it, the predictability of his shifts. He loves the fact that the most complicated problem he usually has to deal with these days is the espresso machine breaking down, and that nobody has ever pulled a gun on him over a botched order. He doesn’t even mind all of the paperwork that comes with owning the place, or at least being the person whose name is on the bank payments.

It’s safe, it’s calm, he enjoys it. And the fact that they’re right on the edge of campus is probably the main thing keeping the shop above water now that it’s stopped functioning primarily as a money-laundering scheme for the family business. What’s left of it now, anyway.

That doesn’t mean that the kids don’t drive him up a fucking wall half the time, though.

He’s unraveling a roll of paper towels to mop up the remnants of an iced coffee that some girl dropped on her way out the door—he can’t tell if she was aiming for the garbage can, but if so she missed by a good three feet—and half-listening to Maia bitch comfortably about the music on the radio while she wipes down the counter for the next rush, when there’s a loud crash out back.

Alec feels his head jerk up. The three customers still lingering over their coffee look up as well, and Maia says, “What the hell was that?”

“Stay here,” Alec says, straightening. His hand almost drifts for a gun that he hasn’t carried in years, which is ridiculous. He probably just forgot to lock the back door last time he took the garbage out. There’s probably just a raccoon or something getting into his kitchen. Or some drunk from the college bars across the street stumbled in.

Hopefully a raccoon.

“Alec?”

“Just stay here,” he repeats, and moves past her into the kitchen.

The back door is hanging open, letting in a hot September breeze and garbage-alley stink, but Alec barely notices that. There’s a man slumped against the cabinet, definitely not the underaged drunk he was expecting; this guy is mid-thirties, clean-shaven and wearing a tailored suit that was probably very nice when he put it on. He looks like he’s had his ass kicked six ways from Sunday, and he doesn’t seem to be conscious.

“Oh,” Maia says from behind Alec. “Shit.”

“Great,” Alec sighs, crouching next to the guy. A quick press of his fingers to the slack warm throat yields a shallow, steady pulse. The cell phone in the guy’s pocket is locked, and the wallet he also finds there shows a license with a photo of a blond, square-jawed white guy who is definitely _not_ the man passed out on his floor.

“Is he dead?” Maia asks. She sounds pretty unconcerned about the prospect.

“No,” Alec says, slapping the man’s face lightly. No response. “But I’m not sure—”

A low groan, and then the man shifts, swinging clumsily at him. Alec leans out of reach before his fist can make contact.

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” he says, although he’s not sure the guy is with it enough to hear him. “I’m calling an ambulance—”

A hand shoots out to catch his arm as he reaches for his phone, grip surprisingly strong. The man’s eyes blink open, dazed. “No. No hospitals.”

Alec shakes him off. “I don’t need some idiot to die in the middle of my shop.”

“Concussion,” the man mumbles. “I’m fine. Really.”

“You know those can still kill you, right?”

“You want me to call the cops?” Maia asks, sounding dubious.

“No cops. I’m fine.”

Maia snorts expressively. “Alec?”

“Not yet,” Alec sighs. “Can you get everybody out of here? Tell them there’s a gas leak or something, I don’t care. Shop’s closed for the day. I’ll pay you for your full shift.” Maia nods and heads back toward the front, and over the sound of her briskly kicking out his remaining patrons, he says to the man, “Okay. If you don’t want me to call the cops, you gotta give me something. Do you have anyone else I can call?”

The man opens his eyes again, blinks at him slowly. He’s strikingly good-looking, actually, or he would be if he wasn’t such a complete mess. The bruise on his temple looks pulpy and painful, the skin split and dried blood all down the side of his face, although at least the bone underneath seems intact. He flexes his jaw, then says, slowly, “We’re in New York, right?”

“Okay, yeah, I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No, don’t—” the man shakes his head. “Lightwood. This used to be the Lightwood family business. One of them.”

Something cold sinks like a stone to the pit of Alec’s stomach. “Yeah. It used to be.”

“Isabelle Lightwood. Call Isabelle…” He’s drifting away again, his eyes slipping shut. Alec leans over him.

“Hey.” He doesn’t want to shake the guy, but his hands catch at his shoulders all the same, like he can drag him back to consciousness by force. “_Hey._ What does Izzy have to do with this?” No response. “What’s your name?”

The man lets out a slurry of consonants as his head lolls back against the cabinet, and it takes Alec a minute to put them together into a name. _Magnus._

He swears under his breath as he stands. By the door, Maia gives him a look, and he waves her off. “It’s fine. Enjoy the day off.”

“Don’t do anything too stupid,” she says finally, and pulls her apron off to toss it over the counter. Alec waits until she’s let herself out, locking the door behind her, to pull out his phone and start dialling a number he hasn’t called in over a year.

* * *

They’re halfway through a surprisingly civilized dinner with Luke when Izzy gets the call. She glances down at the screen, frowns suddenly, and stands, pushing her chair back. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

“It’s fine,” Clary says, and Izzy gives her a distracted smile as she steps away. She doesn’t need to look over at Luke to know exactly the look he’s giving her, especially after Izzy crosses over to the other side of the deck, speaking too quietly into the phone to hear. She’s as gorgeous as ever in tight jeans and a flowered top, hair pulled back to display drop earrings and the lovely curve of her shoulders, but her posture has gone tense and still, balanced like she’s ready to throw a punch or maybe take a punch. It always makes her look like a different person entirely, although Clary knows that this is just another side of Izzy. One she doesn’t usually see.

“Clary,” Luke says quietly.

She looks up at him, smiles as brightly as she can at the serious expression on his face. “What?”

He nods toward Izzy. “We gonna talk about this?”

“About what?” Clary asks. “It’s not like you’ve never taken a work call in the middle of dinner.”

Luke’s mouth tightens, but before he can answer, Izzy is moving back toward them, tucking her phone away. “I’m _so_ sorry,” she says, and she sounds just like Clary’s Izzy again. “I have to go take care of something—Luke, thank you for dinner, the chicken was amazing. I’ve never tasted anything like that marinade.”

“Old family recipe,” Luke says coolly. “Are you sure you can’t stay for desert? It’s rhubarb pie.”

“I’ll save you some,” Clary says, and Izzy smiles down at her.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” She leans down to kiss Clary, taking her time about it. That’s one of the things Clary has always loved about her. Izzy kisses like she doesn’t care who’s watching them, like the entire world can just stop and wait until she’s satisfied that the job has been properly done. It’s a little embarrassing, especially since Luke is sitting right there watching them with a disapproving glint in his eyes, but it’s also kind of awesome.

Izzy pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes when she finally leans back. “I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” Clary says, smiling helplessly.

Luke waits until after Izzy leaves, motorcycle roaring away from the curb and echoing down the block, before he puts his fork down with a sigh. “Are we going to talk about this?”

“Talk about what?” Clary asks, taking another huge bite of rhubarb pie. “This is amazing,” she says through her mouthful. “Izzy is going to love it.”

“Manners,” Luke says dryly. “So. Isabelle left in a hurry.”

“It was probably a work thing. You’ve done it too.”

“My work things don’t involve breaking the law. The opposite, actually.” Luke folds his arms. “Clarissa.”

“Oh, the full name,” Clary says lightly, but she can’t help the half-guilty, half-defensive twitch of her shoulders. She knows what’s coming, and there’s a part of her that wants to put her hands over Luke’s mouth like she can keep the words behind his teeth by force. “You must be serious.”

“I am serious. She’s a criminal. You get that, right? The Lightwood family—”

“I’m not dating the Lightwood family, I’m dating Izzy.”

“You’re dating Isabelle Lightwood,” Luke says, very gently. “And she is a criminal. She’s been under investigation for months. She’s been implicated in half a dozen different counterfeit schemes. It’s just a matter of time before something actually sticks. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”

“What, you’re telling me you’re going to arrest my girlfriend?”

Luke sighs. “I’m telling you that I don’t want to be in a position where I have to make that call. Okay?”

“I’m not breaking up with her, if that’s what you’re asking me to do.”

“I’m just asking you to be careful,” Luke says. “That’s all.”

Clary pauses as she passes him on the way to the fridge, drops a fond kiss on the top of his head. “I know what I’m doing, I promise.”

“Yeah,” Luke sighs. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

* * *

“This had better be good,” Izzy says when she steps through the door. She looks good. Softer than she did the last time he saw her. She’s wearing a flowered blouse, motorcycle boots, hair slightly disheveled from her helmet. “You interrupted dinner with my girlfriend and her step-dad, and he’s a cop so he already hates me.”

“You’re dating the daughter of a _cop_?” Alec says incredulously. “Also, hey, Izzy, nice to see you, it’s been, what, a year?”

“Step-daughter.” Izzy steps closer, wraps her arms around him. “Hi, Alec. I missed you.”

“Sure you did,” Alec says, but he’s smiling. Things with Izzy always seem less complicated when she’s actually in front of him. It’s an illusion, but a comforting one. “So, Magnus. Didn’t get a last name.”

“Bane,” Izzy says, pulling back. “Or at least it was the last time I knew him. He’s a business associate. And a friend. Sort of.”

“Okay. He’s currently passed out under my espresso machine. I’d kind of like him out of here. I love you, Iz, but I meant it when I said I was out. I don’t want this shit in my shop, okay?”

“You’ve gotten so boring since you went straight,” Izzy says, and then rolls her eyes when he snorts. “For a certain extremely limited definition of the term, very funny. Are you seeing anyone?”

“Really?” Alec asks, leading her back through the shop. “We’re doing this now? I have an unconscious criminal in my kitchen and you want to hear about my love life?”

There’s a groan from the floor as they step behind the counter. “Neither unconscious nor a criminal, thank you very much.” Bane is awake again. He’s dragged himself up to a more or less seated position, head lolling back against the cabinets, smile dazed as he peers up at them. “Hello, Isabelle. Lovely to see you again.”

“Magnus,” she says. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

“This time it’s actually not my fault.” The man starts to lift his head, then stops, winces, and puts it back against the cabinet. “I’ve been burned, and there are some Russian gun-runners who are exceedingly unhappy with me right now. I could use a new name. And possibly a place to lie low in the meantime.” He laughs a little, tiredly. “I’m a bit short on funds at the moment, but you know I’m good for it.”

“Wow,” Izzy says after a moment. “When you fuck up, you don’t do it by halves, do you?”

Bane grimaces, shifting against the counter. “I know you don’t believe me, but I mean it. It was a routine job. They were all lined up as neat as—” he waves one hand a little. There’s a ring glinting on one finger, and it catches Alec’s attention briefly. “As neat as—fuck, I don’t know. Pins. Bowling pins.”

“Pretty sure he’s concussed,” Alec says. Izzy gives him a look.

“You think?”

“I can hear you, you know,” Bane says. He pushes the heel of his hand into his temple, then adds, “Although you’re right. I’m definitely concussed. Ivan Kuznetsov was not happy when his money transfer failed to go through.”

“Jesus,” Izzy sighs. “Kuznetsov, really?”

“Somebody I should know?” Alec asks.

“Nah. You were already out of the business by the time he made it big in the States.” Izzy sighs. “But he’s known for holding a grudge.”

“And he thinks I cheated him. Correctly, I guess, since my handlers decided to cut me loose instead of approving the money transfer.” Magnus pauses, then adds, a bit more lightly, “Also, I kicked the shit out of his guard and left him handcuffed to a radiator, so there’s that.”

“Great,” Izzy says. “Kuznetsov operates out of Florida. What the hell are you doing in New York?”

“I hitched a ride from an old friend who owed me a favor. However, I’m a bit short on those at the moment, so I was hoping I could prevail upon you. For old time’s sake.”

“If you were anyone else, I’d throw you out into the street.”

“But you have a soft spot for me. Also, there was that minor thing with the Jamaicans that I helped you out with that one time...”

“You’re not staying with me,” Izzy says, although she’s softened a little. “I don’t like you that much.”

“I can get a hotel.”

“With what money?”

Bane’s mouth curls up into a smile. Even as loopy as he is right now, it holds a faint edge. “I’m sure I can figure something out.”

“He can stay with me,” Alec says, before he can think better of it. Izzy raises her eyebrows at him, and even Bane looks startled. He halfway wants to kick himself, but—

Well. The guy really shouldn’t be alone right now. And Izzy can work fast when it suits her. He’ll be out of Alec’s hair in no time.

“Are you sure, Alec?” Izzy says. “You just said you didn’t want to be involved.”

“I’m already involved right now,” Alec points out, and shrugs. “Look, if he’s with me, he’s not wandering around New York and drawing all kinds of trouble. Also, he’s concussed. He should have somebody keeping an eye on him.”

“I am literally right here,” Bane interjects, then lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug, winces, drops it. “However, as I just said, I’m a bit short on friends and funds at the moment. If pretty boy here is offering, I would be grateful to take him up on it.”

_Pretty boy_. This fucking guy. Alec glances at Izzy. “You take care of the paperwork, I’ll keep an eye on him. And maybe after all this we can go get dinner and actually have a conversation for the first time in fourteen months, wouldn’t that be nice?”

It’s not all that pointed, but Izzy still flinches like he hit her. He doesn’t allow himself to feel bad about that, and he doesn’t take it back; after a moment, she sighs. “Okay. Fine. That sounds great.” Then she turns her gaze on Magnus. “So, Alec is a grown man, and I’m not going to tell him what to do. And I’ll get your paperwork together so you can get the hell out of here as soon as possible. But Magnus?” She crouches down in front of him, graceful in her low-heeled motorcycle boots, and he’s forgotten this side of Izzy, the ice-cold one that makes her look just like their mother back before she found religion in prison. “If any of this blows back on the people I love, I will fucking end you. Are we clear?”

Magnus rolls his head back against the cabinet, laughs softly. “Isabelle, my dear,” he says, “I would expect nothing less.”

* * *

“Home sweet home,” Alec says when they make it back to his building. It’s not as nice as Izzy’s swanky loft in Brooklyn—which he hasn’t actually seen in years, isn’t actually sure if she’s still living there, now that he thinks about it.

Anyway, it’s decent enough. A tall brick building with crumbling molding squeezed in between two towering 1970’s monstrosities. There are flowers planted in the curb strip and in boxes on the barred windows of super’s apartment next to the entrance. It’s homey. Alec likes it.

Magnus doesn’t say anything, and when Alec glances back at him he has the pale, unfocused look of a man trying very hard not to fall flat on his face. He’s still moving, though, so Alec doesn’t offer him a hand. Not yet.

“How likely is it that a bunch of angry Russians are going to try to break down my front door before Izzy can get your new ID put together?” he asks as he digs out his keys.

Magnus blinks at him. “You’re asking me this _now?_”

“I just want some idea of what I’m in for.” Alec pulls the door open, nods at the cramped, air-conditioned lobby beyond. “After you.”

“I thought I was the one with the head injury,” Magnus murmurs, stepping past Alec into the lobby. His dark eyes scan the small space as if looking for threats, but he seems to relax a little when it becomes clear that there’s nothing here other than rows upon rows of mailboxes and water-damaged plaster. Alec pulls the door shut behind him, jiggles it to make sure the lock catches, then goes to unlock his mailbox. Nothing too interesting, fortunately. A pile of bills, a catalogue advertising watches that cost more than his monthly take-home, a letter in a thin USMC envelope that's addressed in Jace’s cramped handwriting.

“You definitely have a head injury,” he says absently, dumping everything but the electric bill and the letter into the recycling bin that the super, Doris, keeps wedged under the window where it can catch the leaks. There’s still blood trickling down from Magus’s hairline. Still, or again. It’s a good thing he keeps his first aid kit stocked, even though the worst that usually happens to him these days is a burn from the temperamental espresso machine.

“And yet you’re the one who invited me into your home, and you’re just now asking if you’re likely to have your door broken down by the people following me.”

“Well,” Alec says patiently. “Am I?”

“Unbelievable,” Magnus sighs. “No, I don’t think it’s likely. At least not right away.”

“Good,” Alec says. “Are you going to be able to get up the stairs by yourself? The elevator’s broken.”

“Of course it is.” Magnus lifts a hand, swipes at the blood before it can trickle into his eye. He looks at his fingers and makes a face. “Well. I beat up a Russian bodybuilder with extremely bad hygiene this morning, what’s a few flights of stairs? Just tell me you don’t live on the top story.”

“Third floor,” Alec says. He’s smiling, he realizes. “Come on.”

* * *

“So,” Magnus says, after Alec has sat him down on the toilet seat and broken out his first aid kit, which is admittedly way more extensive than he actually needs for his current line of work. Old habits die hard, but he’s glad right now that he has a suture kit, because there’s no way that butterfly bandages are going to hold a cut that nasty closed. At least not neatly. And it would be a shame to scar a face that pretty, not that he’d ever say as much out loud. “I never did get a last name from you.”

“Do you need one?” Alec asks, amused.

“Mm. I suppose not.” Magnus blinks up at him. His eyes are dark enough that it’s hard to tell in the dim light whether or not his pupils are dilated, but he seems to be tracking more or less okay. “It would be nice to know who’s stitching me up, though.”

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” Alec says, threading the curved needle.

“Oh, I’m sure you do, pretty boy.”

_Keep calling me that and I’m going to start taking it seriously_, he thinks, but doesn’t say. His dating life may have been stagnating pitifully for the past year or so, but he isn’t quite at the level of trying to flirt with concussed bloody men in his bathroom. Especially not when they’re Izzy’s _business associates_.

Out loud, he says, “Thanks a lot. And it’s Lightwood.”

“Oh, Alexander _Lightwood._ I see. You must be the mysterious eldest Lightwood sibling, then. I thought perhaps you were Isabelle’s current boytoy.”

“She’s my sister, so, ew,” Alec says. “Also, she has a girlfriend. And I’m gay.”

“Ah.” Magnus straightens slightly. His tone is unreadable.

Alec sets the needle down on the edge of the sink and folds his arms. There was a time when a reaction like that would have made him flinch, but he’s a long way from that skittish, touchy, closeted kid these days, thank god. This is his apartment, and Magnus is a guest. If he has an issue with it, he can find somewhere else to hide from the Russian Mafia. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.” Magnus looks up at Alec through his eyelashes. “I’d be a complete hypocrite if it was.”

“Oh,” Alec says, slightly wrong-footed. “Well, okay. Good. Now hold still. This’ll probably sting a little. I think I have a topical—”

“It’s fine,” Magnus says, and leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees, the languidly flirtatious pose draining away as quickly as it appeared. He looks exhausted. “I think I’d just as soon have it over with, if it’s all the same to you.”

Alec shrugs and picks up the needle. “Suit yourself.”

“I always do,” Magnus says, then closes his eyes as Alec gets to work.

It takes five stitches, all told, to close the wound, and Magnus doesn’t flinch once. When he’s done, Alec tapes gauze carefully over it and packs up his kit. Magnus doesn’t move from his seat; his eyes are still closed and he’s swaying slightly in place. He doesn’t look entirely with it, but Alec knows better than to try and touch him.

“All done,” he says out loud. “You want some clean clothes or something?”

“Ah,” Magnus says, and blinks up at him with the dazed look of a man who's been running on adrenaline and willpower for far too long. He's crashing. “I think any clothes of yours would be too long for me, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. Thank you.”

“Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. If Magnus is going to pass out on him, it would be better if it happens on his couch rather than on the bathroom floor. He’s not sure whether or not Magnus will take the help, but after a moment he slides his hand into Alec’s. His palm is calloused and warm, the suggestion of strength there even as he allows Alec to tug him up to his feet.

“So,” Alec says as they make their way into the living room, casting around for anything to keep Magnus awake for just a little longer. “Magnus Bane, huh?”

“That’s me.”

“There’s no way in hell that’s your real name.”

“Oh, does it really even matter? Your talented little sister is crafting me a new identity as we speak.”

Alec snorts. “I hope you didn’t give her naming rights.”

“Isabelle is an artist,” Magnus says archly. “I would never presume to interfere with her process.”

“Right,” Alec says, and points him at the couch. “I’m gonna grab you some clothes. Try not to pass out before then.”

“I’m not going to _pass out_,” Magnus says, sounding offended. The effect is ruined by the huge yawn that interrupts him mid-sentence as he folds himself painfully down onto Alec’s futon couch. “I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Alec says, and takes himself into his bedroom, which is—according to the realtor who showed him the place—_cozy_. _Cozy_ translates into a windowless cave with just enough room for a bed wedged against one corner and a narrow path to the closet, but still. It’s not like he’s had anybody he’s trying to impress lately.

By the time he makes it out with sweatpants and t-shirt in hand, he’s not all that surprised to find Magnus slumped over in an extremely uncomfortable-looking position, snoring faintly into the couch cushion with his shoes still on and his suit jacket twisted around him. Alec shakes his head and kneels down to pull his shoes off and arrange him into a position that’s somewhat less likely to leave him with a crick in his neck. Magnus doesn’t even stir.

He rests his hand on Magnus’s shoulder briefly, looking down at his handsome face relaxed in sleep, and pushes down the sinking feeling that he’s already in way over his head.

He sets the clothes down on the coffee table, scrubs a hand through his hair, and sighs. Yeah. This was probably a bad idea. Too late to back out now, though.


	2. Rattling Cages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: now with smut and scheming. Hashtag on Twitter is [#WLLTFic](https://twitter.com/hashtag/WLLTFic?src=hashtag_click).
> 
> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments; I hope you enjoy!

* * *

It’s past midnight when Clary hears a scrabbling sound from the fire escape, the clatter of feet on metal. She sets her pencil down and slips the sketch she was working on back into her portfolio. The window slides open as she turns, smiling, and says, “You know, Luke is going to shoot you one of these days if you keep sneaking in my window in the middle of the night.”

Izzy pauses, perched lightly on the windowsill like a pretty flowered bird, motorcycle helmet in hand. “You could always lock your window if you have a problem with intruders.”

She’s smiling too, but there’s something fragile around the edges of it. Clary sets her portfolio down and pushes her chair back to cross the floor and tug Izzy into the room. Almost as an afterthought, she reaches around her to push the window closed, and then she settles her hands on Izzy’s cheeks and draws her into an unhurried kiss. She doesn’t pull back until the tense lines of Izzy’s body have started to relax, her free hand settling on Clary’s hip. “I really don’t mind. But you could come in the front door.”

“Then he really might shoot me.”

“Luke likes you,” Clary lies brightly, and kisses Izzy again when she rolls her eyes. “He will like you. When he gets to know you better..”

“I love that you think that,” Izzy murmurs. She sets her helmet down on the bedside table, then hooks a hand behind Clary’s neck, pulling her in for another kiss. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Nothing that I didn’t want interrupted.” She wrinkles her nose when Izzy pulls back to look at her. “Midterm project. Not like my scholarship depends on it or anything, it’s fine.”

“I can go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Clary says firmly. “I really—” She kisses Izzy again. “—wanted to be interrupted, actually.”

“Oh, well in that case, it’s my pleasure,” Izzy says, and she’s laughing finally, allowing herself to be backed against the bed, dropping to the mattress and pulling Clary down after her. Clary pushes her shirt up, lets her hands skim over the warm skin exposed there, the small tattoo of an angel on Izzy’s hip, the glint of a diamond in her navel ring. Izzy laughs and squirms when she leans down to tug at it with her teeth, and Clary presses a smile to her hip.

They’ve done this enough times now that there’s a rhythm to it, a familiarity: undoing Izzy’s tight jeans and tugging them down over her hips. Clary leaves them tangled around her calves even though it makes it harder for her to fit between Izzy’s legs, too impatient to bother with the complicated buckles and straps of her motorcycle boots. Izzy arches off the bed, gasping, when Clary pushes her face between her thighs, mouths at her through red silk panties that are already turning damp. The heady smell of her, arousal and musk under the sweetness of her perfume, her hands flexing on the mattress, the way she groans when Clary takes one of her hands and guides it to rest on the back of her head.

“Oh, god,” Izzy sighs, and her fingers flex, tangle in Clary’s hair. Her other hand is sliding up under her shirt, shoving her bra up, tugging at her nipples. It’s an intoxicating sight even though her shirt obscures the view: Izzy arching against the mattress, red lower lip caught between her teeth, the tantalizing underside of her breasts, flashes of dusky nipples and clever fingers. Clary swallows, presses another kiss to her inner thigh, then pushes her panties aside to slide two fingers into her. She’s so wet already that they go easily.

Izzy arches against the mattress with a low whine, the long muscles in her thighs flexing. “Please—babe, oh, please—”

Clary presses another smile to her hip, then sucks a mark there, worrying lightly at the tender skin with her teeth. Izzy’s hips are rocking as she fucks herself onto Clary’s fingers, a high flush in her cheeks, and she’s so gorgeous like this that Clary sometimes thinks she could watch her for hours.

She doesn’t quite have the patience for that, but she takes her time about it all the same, mapping the soft swell of Izzy’s belly, the jut of her hips and the tender insides of her thighs with her mouth until Izzy is swearing desperately before she finally pushes the soaked silk aside and licks over her pussy. Salt taste and Izzy is so wet that she’s almost dripping with it, slick against Clary’s lips and tongue. She sets her mouth against Izzy’s clit and sucks, and Izzy arches off the bed with a wordless cry and comes, her cunt pulsing around Clary’s fingers, yanking so hard at her hair that she sees stars. She groans raggedly without pulling back and feels Izzy jerk against her mouth again.

“God, fuck, I’m sorry,” Izzy says a moment later, letting go, and Clary shakes her head, gasping, arousal swooping through her as she shoves her free hand between her legs. It’s rough and clumsy at this angle but that barely matters. She’s so close that she’s shaking with it.

“No, god, no,” she gasps, and licks over Izzy’s clit again, lightly this time, feels her shudder around her fingers where they’re still pushed inside. “You can—I liked it.”

“Oh,” Izzy breathes, and then, “_oh_,” and her hand is in Clary’s hair again, tugging sharply, shoving her back down. It’s a little rougher than before, hard to breathe like this, but Izzy’s thighs are trembling and she’s all that Clary can smell and taste and feel, the way her hips move as she rocks up against her mouth, and when she starts to come a second time Clary shoves the pads of her fingers roughly against her own clit and rocks down against her hand and follows her a moment later.

* * *

They lay tangled together in bed for a long time after that before Izzy finally makes a face and sits up to pull her boots off. She shimmies out of her jeans and shirt, and Clary sits up to do the same before curling back down into the warmth of her body. Izzy strokes a hand through her hair, calluses catching slightly on the fine strands, and Clary pushes her face into her shoulder and breathes in the smell of her perfume, the hint of clean sweat on her skin. She could sleep like this, but there’s still tension wound into Izzy’s body. Her hand strokes down Clary’s side to come to rest on her hip, comfortably possessive in a way that puts a languid curl of heat through the pit of Clary’s stomach, but the rest of her is tense. She’s holding herself tight, like she’s poised to flee.

Which is stupid. If she was, she wouldn’t have bothered to get undressed. There have been times—not so often anymore, but pretty frequently back when they first started this thing—when Izzy would climb through her window just to push her down on the bed and get her off, rough and frantic. Half the time she wouldn’t even let Clary reciprocate before climbing back out again with a breezy smile and a kiss blown from across the room.

Things haven’t been like that between them in a long time, but still Clary worries.

Finally, she rolls over to switch off the lamp, briefly dislodging Izzy’s hand. She curls back against her when darkness falls over the room, though, reaches for Izzy’s hand, twines their fingers together.

“Hey,” she says softly. It’s easier now, in the darkness. Easier for both of them, hopefully. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” Izzy says quickly. Her fingers twitch like she’s about to pull her hand away, but she doesn’t.

“Of course,” Clary echoes. She catches Izzy’s cheek in her free hand, leans in to kiss her mouth. It’s quick and soft, slightly misaimed in the darkness. “If you weren’t, you could tell me. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” Izzy says again, scoffing this time. She slings a leg over Clary’s, smooth skin dragging at her prickly unshaven calf, the sensitive back of her knee. Izzy is always so smooth, so perfect, so put-together.

She’s also not someone you can push. Clary learned that one early on. It’s her instinct: to push, to keep asking questions, to draw Izzy out of that hard, glossy shell she puts over herself so much of the time, but she knows damn well by this point that that’s a good way to make Izzy _leave_, and that’s the last thing she wants now.

“Okay,” she says instead, and pulls Izzy closer. Their knees bump, and Izzy’s arm goes around her, pulling Clary flush against her body, warm and bare. The teasing drag of Izzy’s nipples, tightening to little knots at the friction. Clary hums contentedly. She could pull Izzy into another kiss, another languid session of lovemaking to distract them both from whatever’s bothering her, but she doesn’t. Not yet, anyway.

Eventually, Izzy sighs against her cheek. “That… earlier, it wasn’t work.”

Clary reaches out in the darkness, finds Izzy’s mouth, presses her fingers to it. “You don’t have to tell me,” she whispers.

Izzy kisses the tips of her fingers, her breath hot when she says, “It was my brother. Alec.”

Oh. Clary knows that Izzy has family, but she doesn’t really talk about them. Her parents are both in prison, one brother stationed overseas, one staying with an aunt on the other side of the country. She hadn’t realized there was a third. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.” Izzy takes a shaky breath. “I haven’t talked to him in more than a year.”

“Oh,” Clary says out loud. “I didn’t realize…”

“What?” Izzy asks. It’s shaky, defensive almost. She shifts back until Clary’s hand isn’t touching her face anymore, though their legs are still tangled together, and Clary has to swallow back an obscure feeling of loss.

She swallows again. “I didn’t know his name.”

“Alec,” Izzy says again, but she’s relaxing a little. “His name is Alec. He’s two years older than me.” She pauses, allowing that information to settle. It’s more than she’s ever said about her family. Clary knows more about Izzy’s opinions on Robert Mapplethorpe than she does about her girlfriend’s actual blood relatives. “God. He probably hates my guts by now.”

“He called you,” Clary offers.

“Only because he had to.” Izzy sighs again, flops back against the pillow, her bare body a long line of heat against Clary. “He’s out of the… you know. The family business. Has been since my parents went to prison. That was five years ago.”

Clary reaches over, settles her palm on the soft swell of Izzy’s belly, the hard ridge of her hip bone jutting up. After a moment, Izzy settles her own hand on top of it. For a while, neither of them speaks, and then Izzy sighs. “It’s just weird, that’s all. He wants to go out to dinner after… there’s a, um. A friend of mine is sleeping on his couch right now, and I’m pretty sure he’s pissed about that, but he wants to go out to dinner after it all blows over.”

“So let’s go out to dinner,” Clary says softly, hoping like hell that she isn’t misreading that. “Somewhere nice. I’ll wear a dress, even. I’d like to meet your family. Your brother.”

_I want to know everything there is to know about you. I want everything you can bring yourself to give me._

Izzy’s belly rises and falls as she breathes in, then out slowly.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I’d really like that.”

“Are you going to stay tonight?” Clary asks eventually. They’ve moved past the point of Izzy diving out the window as soon as her legs can hold her up, but it still isn’t often that she’ll actually spend the night. Usually, she’ll stay here curled around Clary until Clary falls asleep and then pull her clothes on and creep out the window, so quiet and stealthy that Clary doesn’t usually even realize that she’s gone until she wakes up the next morning to cold sheets and an empty bed.

Sometimes, though, she stays.

“Yeah,” Izzy says. In the dark space between them, she reaches out, slides a hand through Clary’s hand and draws her into a kiss. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

“Good,” Clary murmurs. “Luke should have time for breakfast. You could eat with us. I’ll make waffles.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Izzy says, but Clary can feel the shape of her smile.

* * *

Isabelle wakes slowly, cocooned in warmth, to the sound of soft scratching nearby. Her eyelids feel heavy, her body loose and relaxed, and that’s how she knows that she’s in Clary’s bed. That, and the crisp smell of the detergent she uses, and the softness of the pillow beneath her head. Clary’s pillows are all down, like sinking into a cloud. Nothing at all like the memory foam Izzy uses on her own bed, the one Clary has never, ever slept in. It’s not enough support and there’s always a crick in her neck when she wakes up. She usually pretends that’s why she rarely stays.

_You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself_, Raphael told her a few days ago when he dropped off her latest shipment, not for the first time. _Her old man’s a cop. You’re already in too deep, and if this goes sideways it’s not just your heart that’s gonna get broken. You get that, right?_

And she does. That’s the thing. She _does_ get it. She knows how this all ends for her, and she’s known it since the first time she walked into that gallery and saw Clary’s flame-bright hair, her face lighting up into something soft and hopeful when Izzy introduced herself. The way she blushed when Izzy asked her out to dinner, then smiled, bright and genuine.

It was supposed to be a one-night stand, all those months ago. One night of fun with a pretty college girl, one night in bed with someone who had no reason to slip a knife between her ribs, one night of feeling like a _human_.

Instead, here she is, curled up in a bed that’s become almost as familiar as her own, in the home of a _cop_, and she is so, so very fucked.

She starts to roll over, and from across the room, Clary says softly, “Hold still.” Izzy pauses, and a moment later, Clary adds, sounding embarrassed, “Sorry. I mean. I guess you can move if you want to. I was almost done anyway.”

Izzy rolls onto her back, then turns over, pushing herself up on one elbow. On the other side of the room, Clary is perched cross-legged on her desk, wearing boxer shorts, mismatched fuzzy socks, and nothing else. An enormous newsprint pad is spread across her lap, and there are smudges of charcoal on her fingers and more smeared on her cheeks and temples where she must have shoved her hair out of her face without thinking. She’s unbelievably beautiful.

“Were you _drawing_ me?” Izzy asks.

Clary’s cheeks go pink. She chews her lip, then says, “Are you going to be mad if I say yes?”

“No,” Izzy says. She hesitates. “Can I see?”

For a moment, Clary seems to hesitate, her blush deepening. There’s something weirdly charming about it. Clary is fairly unflusterable when it comes to sex, blunt and eager to ask for exactly what she wants, but she blushed when Izzy first asked her out, and she blushed when Izzy complimented the wild vivid colors of her abstract paintings in the gallery, and she’s blushing now.

“You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to,” Izzy adds, although now that she’s said it she’s weirdly eager to see.

Clary rolls her eyes and slips off the desk. “Of course I’ll show you,” she says, padding across the floor. She’s still blushing, the pink flush spreading down the column of her throat to her delicate collarbones, but she’s completely unselfconscious about the fact that she’s half naked and for once Izzy doesn’t stare at her pert breasts, pale pink nipples pointed slightly in the air-conditioned chill of the room, the dusting of freckles where Clary’s habitual summer tank tops let in the sun.

Okay. She doesn’t stare _much._

Clary’s smiling when she settles down on the bed next to Izzy. Izzy moves aside automatically to give her room, but Clary just drapes herself over her shoulder, all soft hair and sleep warm skin, the dusty scent of charcoal. The thin newsprint crinkles slightly as she sets ot across Izzy’s knees. “Here.”

“Oh,” Izzy says softly. On the grayish paper, the shape of a woman is sketched with quick confident lines. The graceful curve of her hip, the spill of dark hair across the rumpled pillows, the sheets bunched over her thighs. The dip at the hollow of her spine is shaded delicately, the curve of her ear. All that’s visible of her face from this angle, from the back and slightly above, is the slope of her nose, the curving line of her cheekbone, eyelashes dark against her skin.

She looks beautiful, but more than that, she looks… soft. There’s an intimacy to it. The sleeping figure, her naked, undefended back to the artist. To Clary. She can feel her breath shudder softly in her throat, and Clary shifts beside her and says, “I mean, it’s just a rough sketch. Really rough.”

“It’s beautiful,” Izzy says, but her voice doesn’t come out right.

Clary frowns. “I should have asked. I wasn’t even thinking, I’m sorry. That was, like, really presumptuous of me. I—”

Izzy rests her hand on Clary’s lips briefly, stilling the flow of words, then kisses her. “It’s beautiful,” she says again, firmer, and this time she manages to find a smile.

“I mean.” Clary shrugs, but it’s easier now. A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “Most of that was the subject.”

Izzy snorts. “No, it wasn’t. But you can always draw me if you want to. You don’t have to ask.”

“Okay,” Clary breathes. She looks at Izzy, then down at the sketch, then very deliberately picks up the sketchpad, sets it down on the cluttered bedside table, nearly upending a glass of water, and climbs into Izzy’s lap. The weight of her is sudden and solid, and her grin is bright. “I think I’m done drawing for the morning, though. If that’s okay with you.”

“More than okay,” Izzy breathes, sliding her hands up into Clary’s hair and drawing her down into a kiss.

Raphael was right, she thinks. She is so totally fucked.

They do leave the bed eventually. Luke has made himself scarce by the time they make it downstairs, Izzy in a borrowed pair of Clary’s sweatpants and both of them more or less presentable. Izzy is absolutely fine with avoiding that particular icily civil confrontation at nine o’clock in the morning, but Clary’s mouth turns down into a disappointed moue.

“He said he was going to be home. He already worked late last night, there’s some big bust coming up—international, some guy’s coming in from overseas,” she adds quickly, with a half-anxious glance Izzy’s way. It’s sweet, and it’s also another sign that they are both way too damn involved here.

“Maybe something came up,” Izzy suggests instead of saying that. Something like seeing his stepdaughter’s criminal girlfriend’s motorcycle parked out front and deciding to find somewhere else to be for the morning. It stings a little, but realistically it’s up there near the top of the list of most optimistic outcomes. The alternative is that he’s on his way back here to arrest her for something.

The irony is kind of absurd. The worst she’s done in the past week is agree to forge paperwork for an old friend who’s just been fucked by the United States Government.

Speaking of which. “I should probably go check in on Alec,” she says as Clary opens the fridge and leans down to root through the contents.

Clary pauses, her hand on the door, then comes back up with a carton of eggs and an unreadable expression. “Okay.”

“Do you—” Izzy stops, swallows. This is so stupid. There’s no way she should be involving Clary in this any more than she already is. But still. “You could come with me if you wanted.”

“Come with you?” Clary asks.

“Yeah.” She can feel her cheeks heat, and she breathes in deliberately, willing the blush to fade. She doesn’t blush as obviously as Clary, with her milk-pale skin, but in the bright light of the kitchen Clary has to be able to tell. “I mean, you don’t have to.”

“No, I just…” Clary trails off, pulls her lower lip into her mouth. Izzy can almost see all the words she isn’t saying rattling around on her tongue. _I’ve never met your family_ and _You keep saying that I shouldn’t be involved_ and all of the other true things that Izzy really doesn’t want to hear right now but probably deserves to. What she settles on, finally, is, “I have a class at eleven. But I’m free this afternoon if you don’t mind waiting until then?”

“Of course,” Izzy says. Raphael is going to _murder_ her for this. So will Alec, for that matter. “For now, though, I think you promised me waffles?”

“I did, didn’t I?” Clary says, smiling, and leans across the open door to kiss her again.

* * *

“I really shouldn’t have to explain to you why this is a bad idea,” Raphael says, pushing his laptop shut with a sigh. The crucifix on his neck glints in the greenish light of half a dozen screens that provide the only illumination down here. There is actually a window in his basement workshop, but it’s been covered with a scrap of plywood painted black. The whole place has a general air of some high-tech basement gaming room, down to the posters on the walls and the faint odor of decay. Raphael, in his elegantly tailored suit, looks like the anomaly that he is.

“You don’t,” Izzy says, kicking her heels off and flopping onto the other elderly office chair with a sigh. “But you’re going to anyway, aren’t you?”

Raphael inclines his head agreeably. “Involving civilians never ends well. Involving the daughter of a cop is going to get you arrested. And likely me, too, and trust me, Isabelle, if I’m up on felony charges I am going to rat you out to save my skin and I won’t feel the least bit bad about it.”

“I know,” Izzy says, although the truth is, she knows Raphael better than that.

“But you’re going to do it anyway, because you have no common sense.”

“You knew that when we went into business together,” Izzy tells him, and smiles when he rolls his eyes. “Speaking of which.”

“Oh, no,” Raphael groans.

“Stop it. It’s nothing bad.”

“It had better not be. I’m full up on bad news today. Did I tell you that one of our shipments got confiscated in Jersey? I think Camille is still informing on us.”

“Of fucking course she is,” Izzy sighs. “I would have thought for sure that someone would have shanked her by now.”

Raphael shrugs expressively. “She’s always been good at networking. Even in Bedford Hills.”

“Lucky us.” Izzy crosses her bare feet at the ankle and looks up at the ceiling, which is dark and strung with cobwebs. “I’ve been thinking about going legit. Going back to college, maybe.”

A long silence follows that statement, and then Raphael silently pushes his chair back to stand. He crosses the room to the tiny counter in the corner. Izzy doesn’t turn to watch him, but she can hear the clink of a bottle, the sound of something being poured into a glass.

“Is that for me?”

“You wish,” Raphael says, but when she looks back at him he pulls out another glass. The bottle is squat, half-full of amber liquid and labeled in gold. It looks expensive and it probably is. Despite their miserable current surroundings, Raphael has an appreciation for the finer things in life. He caps the bottle, crosses the room back to her, and places one of the glasses in her hand. Only after he’s taken a healthy swig himself does he speak. “Tell me this isn’t about the girl.”

“Her name is Clary,” Izzy says sharply. Raphael rolls his eyes but lifts a hand apologetically, and she subsides. “No, it’s not about her.” She takes a sip, makes a face, then adds, “It’s not _entirely_ about her.”

“Of course.”

“I mean it. After my parents went in, and Jace enlisted, and Alec—” She makes a face, takes another drink. “I have enough money right now to last me for twelve lifetimes. Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead.”

“Maybe you’re lonely and making rash decisions,” Raphael suggests.

“I’m not lonely,” Izzy says, but she remembers Clary’s room, the way Luke looked at her across the table last night, and something tightens in her chest.

“Of course not.” Raphael sighs. “You should do what’s best for you, Isabelle.”

“I always do,” Izzy says lightly, and Raphael is kind enough not to laugh in her face. She takes another sip and makes a face.

“That face had better not be for my good scotch,” Raphael says warningly. “I wouldn’t share 30-year-old Balvenie with just anyone.”

“It’s not,” Izzy says. “I just… I don’t like this. Between Camille and that shipment that went missing last week, and now Magnus Bane getting burned—”

“You think it’s all connected.”

“I think it would be in everyone’s best interests to get him out of the States as soon as possible, let’s just put it that way. Luke—” She sighs. “Clary’s stepfather is working on some big case. International, so it’s not us that they’re after directly, but…”

Raphael knows her well enough to read between the lines. He leans back in his chair, cupping his glass between his palms, and looks up at the ceiling again. This time, it’s thoughtful instead of exasperated. “I can have something put together by this afternoon. It’ll be a rush job, but it should get him over the border.”

“Good enough,” Izzy says. “Once he’s out of New York, he’s not my problem anymore. I’ll call Alec and let him know.”

* * *

Magnus comes awake to the smell of coffee in the air, a couch spring digging persistently into the base of his spine, and the sound of someone pacing nearby, talking quietly on the phone. He grimaces without opening his eyes, stretches carefully, and takes stock of his body. His wrist still hurts like hell, but it moves easily, so he was probably right yesterday; it’s not broken. His ribs twinge when he moves, but the pain is dulled. Bruised, then, not broken. His head feels like someone took a pickaxe to it.

So, basically about what he expected.

What’s not expected is the fact that his shoes and belt and jacket have been removed, a blanket tucked over him, a pillow beneath his head. When he peels his eyes open, there’s a glass of water and a bottle of Ibuprofen on the rather battered-looking coffee table in front of him.

He’s been _cared_ for. He’s in the home of Alexander Lightwood, who should be the heir to one of the most lucrative criminal enterprises in New York and who instead, apparently… runs a coffee shop and lives in a tiny, shabby one-bedroom apartment in the Bronx. And brings home wayward spies, treats their injuries, and tucks a blanket over them.

And apparently sleeps shirtless, Magnus discovers when he lifts his head to see Alec pacing in the cramped kitchen, cell phone pressed to his ear, wearing nothing but bedhead and a pair of thin sweatpants slung low on his hips. It’s an extremely pleasant view to wake up to, even if the light coming in through the windows feels like it’s stabbing him directly in the eyeballs.

“...a good idea, but I’ll ask him when he wakes up.” Alec pauses, rolling his shoulders, then adds, somewhat sharply, “I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth, Izzy. Of course I want to meet her. I would have wanted to meet her months ago if I knew she _existed._” Another pause. “Okay. I’m not saying I have a problem with it, I’m saying that maybe we should… okay.”

He scruffs a hand through his messy hair and turns, meets Magnus’s eyes. Magnus raises his eyebrows at him, and Alec says into the phone. “Look, he just woke up. I’ll talk to him, and I’ll let you know. Okay? Yeah. Love you too. Bye.”

He ends the call and tosses the phone onto the table with a clatter.

“Family troubles?” Magnus asks delicately.

Alec snorts. “No more than usual. How are you feeling? You kind of crashed hard last night.”

“I’m not dead, so my circumstances are already considerably better than I was anticipating at this time yesterday morning.” Magnus pauses. “What time _is_ it?”

“After ten. You slept like a rock. Which is impressive, on that couch. I was going to give you the bed, but you just—” Alec mimes a flopping sort of motion with one hand. “Crashed.”

“Oh, darling, I would never have expected you to give up your bed for me,” Magnus says, straightening up with a groan. He swipes a hand through his hair and finds it unpleasantly stiff, sticky with old sweat and the remnants of yesterday’s mousse. He must look an absolute mess, but he still tips Alec a flirtatious wink. “Of course, I wouldn’t say no to sharing.”

“Very funny,” Alec says, rolling his eyes and turning back to the kitchen counter, where a gleaming coffee maker that looks like it cost more than all the other contents of the apartment combined is hissing softly as it brews. “Coffee? Although you might want to start with water and painkillers.”

“It’s like you’ve done this before.”

“More times than I care to think about,” Alec agrees easily. “You hungry? I’m kind of short on groceries, but I should have bagels and cream cheese.”

Magnus’s stomach roils unpleasantly at the thought. “No food just yet, thank you.”

“Okay. Coffee?”

Coffee is also probably a bad idea, but it might just help with the headache still thundering through his skull. “Please,” Magnus says, and leans forward to uncap the bottle of pills as Alec moves back into the kitchen. He shakes four into his palm and swallows them down, along with the faintly metallic-tasting water, then closes his eyes, listening to the sound of Alec moving around the kitchen, humming a meandering little tune under his breath. His voice is pleasant, low and soft, his bare feet quiet on the floor.

“So,” Magnus says after a little while, leaning his head back against the couch cushion without opening his eyes. “Isabelle took over the family business and you… what, bought a coffee shop?”

“I bought Izzy out, if that’s what you mean,” Alec says. “I guess technically my parents owned it, but it’s not like either of them was going to be running it from the other side of a jail cell.” He doesn’t sound all that broken up about it, but Magnus supposes that growing up in a family like his would make a person philosophical on that particular front.

“And that’s what you do. Make coffee.”

“And pastries.” Alec sounds amused as he comes back into the living room, and Magnus opens his eyes as his shadow moves across the window. He looks even better close up, with his broad shoulders and scattering of abstract tattoos and the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his low-slung sweatpants. “I’m learning to do latte art for the hipster college students.”

“Sounds boring.”

“I haven’t had anybody point a gun in my face in years,” Alec says, setting a mug down in front of him. No latte art, but when Magnus sips tentatively the brew is rich and strong. “I can live with that kind of boring.”

Magnus prods gingerly at the cut at his hairline, the stiff prickles of stitches and the tender skin beneath. He’s probably lucky the pistol-whipping Kuznetsov treated him to before handcuffing him to that radiator didn’t fracture his skull. “I suppose I can see the appeal of that. Particularly at the moment.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“So what was the point of contention?”

“What?”

“On the phone earlier,” Magnus says. “You were arguing with your sister. What about?”

Alec’s brow furrows, but he almost looks amused. “On what planet is that any of your business?”

“Just making conversation,” Magnus says lightly. “Although I do hope I’m not making things difficult for you by being here.”

“Things between me and Izzy are always difficult, it has nothing to do with you.” Alec sips from his coffee cup and sighs. “She wants to bring her girlfriend over later.”

“And you think it’s a bad idea?”

“Uh, _yeah?_ She’s—look, she’s like an art student or something. Her stepfather is a cop. I’m pretty sure that getting her involved in all this is like the worst idea ever.”

“I’m surprised _you_ wanted to be involved, honestly. In your shoes, I’d probably have called the police.”

“Really?”

“No,” Magnus admits. “But I’m not a respectable coffee-shop owner.”

“Respectable might be stretching it,” Alec says with a faint smile. “I don’t really need the attention, trust me. And this seemed like the quickest way to get you out of my hair.”

“I’m pretty sure that inviting me into your apartment is the exact opposite of getting me out of your hair.”

Alec lifts a shoulder. He doesn’t look especially bothered to be caught out. “You’re in a bad situation. I could help. It’s not that complicated.”

“And I suppose my dashing good looks had nothing to do with it,” Magnus says.

Alec snorts. “No.”

Magnus manages half of a pout before his mouth decides to smile instead. He can’t even feel too bothered about it. Sitting here in this little apartment and snarking companionably at a handsome stranger might just be the most relaxing morning he’s had in the past decade, concussion notwithstanding. That might actually be the most normal part of it. “Well. I have it on good authority that I clean up nicely, anyway.”

“That, I can believe,” Alec says, and before Magnus can work out whether or not that was supposed to be a flirtation, he adds, “Speaking of, do you want to grab a shower? I should have some clothes that’ll fit you if you want to wear something that’s not… you know, covered in blood.”

“You’re too thoughtful.” There’s something warm expanding in Magnus’s chest, and he squashes it firmly. Now is _not_ the moment to develop an infatuation. “I’d appreciate that.”

“I’ll be right back.” Alec slips away into the other room. Magnus watches him with idle appreciation as he goes, then sets his head back against the couch cushions and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s tempting to just sit here and let Alec look after him for as long as it takes for Izzy to handle his paperwork. It won’t be long at all, he’s quite sure. She wants him out of her hair almost as much as he wants to be out of the country. He could take a moment. Relax.

Too bad that’s never been his style.

Without opening his eyes, he calls, “There is one other thing, if I could impose on you.”

“What?” Alec says from the other room. The apartment is small enough that he barely has to raise his voice for Magnus to hear him. A far cry from the glittering penthouse he remembers from the last time he was regularly dealing with a Lightwood. Back before Robert’s star fell and nearly took his whole family down with him. Whatever operation Isabelle has left consists of the very diminished scraps of an empire. No wonder Alec got out when he did.

Out loud, he says, “Nothing bad. All I need are some batteries, a bit of pipe, wire, and bleach. If you happen to have it. Chemical fertilizer would be ideal, but I doubt you’ve got any of that lying around.”

Alec ducks back out of the bedroom holding a handful of clothes. His expression is both amused and mildly incredulous. “You think I’m going to help you build a _bomb_ in my living room?”

“I would never presume on your hospitality like that. And even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t need _help_.” Magnus slaps his chest, offended, then winces when his ribs twinge. “No. I’m just trying to send someone a message she can’t ignore.”

“Who?”

“An old friend.” The odds of it actually getting to Cat in time to make any difference are slim, but still. He’s got to try.

Alec eyes him for another minute, then sets the clothes aside. He leans in to look at the clock on the far side of the room, then says, “Doris never leaves the maintenance closet locked. I’ll see what I can find. Just—wait here.”

“Who?” Magnus says, but Alec is already gone.

Doris turns out to be the elderly building super, as Alec explains when he returns with all of the items Magnus asked for and a box to put them in. And a plate of cookies. Apparently she’s taken a shine to Alec, which Magnus finds to be indicative of both excellent taste and dubious judgment, given what he knows about the Lightwoods.

“If you’re not making a bomb, what exactly is all this?” he asks as Magnus works.

“I’m rattling cages.” Magnus connects the last two wires to the capped pipes and tucks the batteries into place, then wipes his hair out of his face with his forearm before reaching for the plastic sack of chemical lawn fertilizer to sprinkle it liberally over the whole mess. “When you get high enough up the governmental food chain, security starts scanning suspicious packages sent to your local offices. And it just so happens that my handler—well, former handler—has an office right here in the city.”

Alec’s brow furrows as he puts the pieces together. “So you’re sending her a fake bomb to get her attention.”

“Yes, well.” Magnus tucks a hastily scribbled note next to his contraption and closes the box. Cat is going to kill him for this, but it’s really her own fault. “She’s not taking my calls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/glorious_spoon) and [Tumblr](https://glorious-spoon.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi!


	3. Family Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a kidnapping or two, and an unlikely team-up.

It’s not until after his package is underway to Catarina’s office in Manhattan that Magnus finally gets around to that shower. The clothes Alec left him turn out to fit well enough, although he has to turn up the hems of the jeans to keep them from dragging, which is somehow endlessly amusing. Possibly, Magnus admits, watching his steam-fogged reflection in the mirror, he’s still a little bit loopy.

Alec doesn’t seem to own any hair-care products, so Magnus settles for sweeping his hair back out of his face with his fingers. He keeps it short enough to stay out of his eyes, and if it isn’t exactly his best look—well. It’s still better than he was looking when Alec dragged him home last night. He’s already made the worst impression possible; the only way to go from here is up.

Which _does not_ matter. He’s going to be out of here within a couple of days, and in the meantime, seducing Isabelle Lightwood’s brother would probably be unwise.

That doesn’t mean that he’s ruling it out if Alec turns out to be amenable, but he should probably eat something before making any rash decisions. As unappealing as the idea of food is right now, the last time he ate was the ill-fated breakfast he had with Kuznetsov yesterday morning before the deal—and everything else in Magnus’s life—went to shit.

He swipes a hand over the mirror and sighs. He’s been so focused on staying alive that he hasn’t really had any time to let it all sink in. 

He’s always been so careful. He plays the game better than almost anyone. Except for one person, the one who taught him all the moves in the first place. He’s been trying not to think about it, but after sending that note to Cat, it’s the only thing he _can_ think about. There have been murmurs out of Jakarta for months, and put together with this—there’s only one person who could be behind it all. 

After more than fifteen years, his father finally seems to be taking an interest in him again.

Magnus takes a shuddery breath, then lets it out. If it is Asmodeus, there’s nothing he can do about it other than what he’s already doing.

_Run. Hide. Like a sniveling little rat when you could be a king._

“Fuck off, Father,” Magnus murmurs to that long-ago ghost. He swipes a hand through his hair again, wincing when his fingers bump the wound on his forehead, then pulls on his best smile and goes back out into the apartment where Alec is waiting.

He’s put a shirt on, sadly, but on the upside, he also has more coffee and a plate of food. Bagels cut into bite-sized pieces, an orange cut into wedges.

“Really?” Magnus says, charmed, all thoughts of Asmodeus fading.

Alec shrugs. “I know you said you weren’t hungry, but you should probably eat. I promise I won’t be offended if you puke.”

“You are a deeply strange man, Alexander Lightwood.”

“I know,” Alec says, sounding unbothered. He sets the plate down on the tiny table that’s tucked into a corner of the kitchenette beneath a window with a view of the fire escape and the brick wall of the building across the alley. “Here. Eat something, I guarantee you’ll feel better.”

“Thank you,” Magnus says, sitting down and pulling the plate toward him. Alec gifts him with a smile so broad and lovely that Magnus feels it like a painless blow to the solar plexus. He rubs at his chest surreptitiously as Alec turns back to the coffee maker.

Yeah. Falling for Isabelle Lightwood’s brother is an absolutely terrible idea, but it’s not like Magnus wound up in his current situation by an excess of common sense. There are worse places he could have ended up, and he’ll be uprooting his life yet again in a couple of days; it’s not like he’ll be around to deal with the fall-out if it all goes wrong.

For the time being, he smiles as Alec settles into a chair on the other side of the table, and applies himself to his breakfast. There’ll be time enough later for everything else.

*

When someone knocks on the door half an hour later, he thinks nothing of it. Alec sighs and says, “I told her to call first,” before unfolding out of his seat and padding across the room to answer it. He looks sleepy and mildly irritated as another flurry of knocks lands on the door, and Magnus finds himself straightening up, a wordless, nameless kind of apprehension climbing up the back of his throat.

Before he can answer, though, Alec is pulling the door open, the chain going tight as he says, “Izzy, I thought I said—”

It’s not Izzy. 

Alec swears sharply and goes to slam the door shut. Whoever is on the other side kicks it hard enough to break the chain, and then Alec is walking backward with his hands up, the muzzle of an AR15 a foot from his face. The person holding it is masked, dressed in black, thick Kevlar vest over SWAT gear.

_Police?_ Magnus thinks, wrong-footed.

“Look,” Alec says, very calmly. He still has his hands up, but he doesn’t look nearly as panicked as any civilian should be at having an assault rifle jammed in his face. “I really think you have the wrong apartment.”

“You know,” the man in the SWAT gear says, looking past Alec toward Magnus, “I don’t think we do, actually.”

Magnus stills. He doesn’t recognize the voice, but he knows the accent. “Ah,” he says, and the man’s head lifts. Not a police officer after all, then. That simplifies things. It doesn’t make them _better_, necessarily, but it simplifies them. “Asmodeus sent you.”

Alec glances back at him without moving. “You know these guys?”

“Not personally.” Magnus steps forward, his hands up. Two guns jerk toward him, and he stops. “Gentlemen, while I admire your enthusiasm, I’m very sure that your employer will not be happy if I return in a body bag.”

It’s a gamble, but it pays off. The gun swings away from him to point toward—oh, great. Alec.

“Boss didn’t say anything about him.”

“Look,” Alec starts, and Magnus steps forward, impulsive, says, “If you shoot him, I am not going to cooperate. Are we clear?”

Alec glances back at him. Magnus doesn’t meet his eyes. This is stupid. It’s _stupid_, and he should know better than to put his neck on the line for a man who’s essentially a stranger to him. A stranger who opened his home to Magnus, who cared for his wounds and made him breakfast and smiled exasperatedly at his flirting, and really, Magnus has never wanted to be anything like Asmodeus. It’s dangerous to care, but it’s worse not to.

He takes another step forward. “I’m sure you have a plan. I won’t cause any trouble. You can take me, and—”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” says the man in the lead, but he lets his finger slide from the trigger. For an instant, Magnus considers grabbing the gun away, but there’s no way that won’t end with one or both of them shot. “You’re both coming with us, and if your boyfriend makes any trouble we’ll put a bullet in his head. Clear?”

“He’s not my—” Magnus starts, and this time it’s Alec who interrupts.

“Clear,” he says. His hands are still up, his voice even. “I’ll cooperate. We both will.”

“Good,” says the man with the gun, and nods to one of his cohorts, who produces a handful of black cloth. He pulls it apart into two pieces, and tosses one at Magnus and one at Alec. Magnus catches it, one-handed, and then wrinkles his nose. A hood. 

“Really?” he says.

“Put it on.”

Alec is already pulling his over his head, and the sight of him like that reminds Magnus of things that he really doesn’t want to think about right now. He unfolds the bag, makes a face, and pulls it down over his head, obscuring the tiny, sun-drenched apartment. It isn’t the first time he’s had to play this particular game, and at least Asmodeus’s henchmen are professional enough to wash the damn bag.

He pulls the bag over his head and manages not to struggle as rough hands yank his wrists behind his back and handcuff them tight. By the shuffling noises and grunt to his left, Alec is getting the same treatment, and then there’s a sharp jab between his shoulder blades and he’s shoved out the door.

“Watch the merchandise. I doubt my father will be pleased if you bring me back with a broken neck.”

He’s not actually completely sure about that, but if Asmodeus just wanted him dead, he would have just placed a sniper across the street. He wouldn’t have bothered with a kidnapping. Probably.

“Father?” Alec murmurs to his left, his own shuffling footsteps in tandem with Magnus’s.

“Yes, well,” Magnus sighs. “It’s a long, sordid story. I’ll tell you all about it over drinks sometime, if we get out of this in one piece.”

That earns him another jab between the shoulderblades, but it’s worth it to hear Alec’s short, startled-sounding bark of laughter.

*

Clary is in the bathroom when she hears the window of her bedroom slide up, soft booted footsteps landing on the floor. She rolls her eyes, draping the towel over the drying rack and reaching for her brush. She’s definitely not going to have time to blow-dry her hair now, but maybe she can keep it from looking like a total rat’s nest when she goes to meet Izzy’s brother.

“Seriously?” she calls. “You know Luke is at work right now, I could have just buzzed you up—”

She’s dragging the brush through her wet hair as she pushes the door open and steps out into her bedroom, and so it takes her a moment to realize that the tall, masked figure standing by her window definitely isn’t Izzy.

It’s an awful, frozen moment, and then Clary hurls the hairbrush she’s still holding at the intruder with all her strength. It’s probably more luck than any testament to her extremely rusty softball skills that it actually make contact, but she doesn’t care; she’s already diving for the door. Every part of her brain that isn’t washed with sudden terror is calculating the distance across the apartment, the obstacles in between. She shoves a bookshelf on its side with a crash, hears stumble and a curse behind her, and then the door knob is in her hand and she’s shoving it open, sprinting down the carpeted hallway as fast as her feet can carry her. 

There are footsteps behind her, heavy on the carpet and gaining fast. A hand catches at her loose hair, yanking her head back hard enough to send a spasm of agony through her neck and shoulders as she’s whipped around and slammed face-first into a wall. She screams, driving her elbow back as hard as she can, stomping down hard on a booted foot. There’s a startled grunt and the man’s grip goes lax for just a moment, just long enough for her to tear herself away. She’s still yelling at the top of her lungs, garbled and incoherent and nearly as furious as she is afraid, and this time she almost makes it to the elevator before she’s grabbed again and slammed back against the wall. The suddenness of it drives the air from her lungs.

That, and the sudden cold press of metal against her temple. For the first time, her attacker speaks, a low rasp. He sounds completely calm. He’s not even out of breath. “Make another sound and I’ll paint this wall with your brains and leave you here for that pig to find when he comes home from work.”

_Luke._ Everything in her screams at her to fight, but—Luke. She can’t do that to him.

“Do you understand?” He gives her a bone-rattling shake when she doesn’t respond immediately. “Answer me.”

Clary takes a shaky breath, and she hates how thin and afraid her voice sounds when she says, “I understand.”

“Good.” A handful of black fabric is shoved at her. “Put it on.”

“A hood? Really?” Clary asks, and then the muzzle of the gun jabs at her again, stifling the momentary hilarity. She takes a shaky breath and pulls it on, and the world around her goes dark. “You know, I don’t know how you’re planning on getting me out of here without anyone wondering what’s going on and calling the cops. Which includes my dad.”

“We’re counting on it,” comes the less-than-reassuring response. “Now move.”

She can’t feel the press of the gun anymore, but she knows it’s still there. There’s the discordant echo of a memory, one she usually tries not to think about: coming home from school on a completely unremarkable Wednesday afternoon to find her mom sprawled on the living room floor, limp and cold and staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Brain aneurysm, was what the coroner said. Such a shame. She was only 46 years old.

Clary was the one who called Luke, sobbing and incoherent, and even through that she remembers the awful, strangled sound Luke made when she finally managed to choke the words out.

Luke is not going to get a phone call like that about her. She’ll make sure of it. She’s getting out of this in one piece, and for right now that means going along with whatever this psycho wants. He’s got to drop his guard eventually.

It’s a strange, dizzying march down the rest of the stairs and out into the muggy summer heat. She can hear people murmuring, but no one interferes as she’s shoved into the back of a van. The interior is even hotter, if that’s possible, and it stinks even through the hood, some musty and unpleasant combination of spilled gas and stale takeout.

The doors slam shut behind her and the engine rumbles to life beneath her feet. The van pulls away from the curb with a jolt that knocks her off her feet. She lands hard on her ass as the van accelerates, and the panicky fear of earlier is starting to curdle into something thick and nauseating in her gut. The sinking feeling that she’s made a terrible mistake. That she should have run while she still could.

*

Security in Izzy’s building is well-paid, professional, and compensated with a fat envelope of untraceable cash that Izzy slips them every month. Nobody outside a tiny handful of people in her life even knows where she lives, and any of them would have to be buzzed up and verified by her personally, so the flurry of knocks at the door while she’s picking at a very late lunch and waiting impatiently for Clary to reply to her text message is an unpleasant surprise. She jolts upright, phone sliding out of her fingers to clatter on the floor. Eyes the window, the fire escape outside, then calls, “Who is it?”

There’s a gun in her sideboard. She leans forward to slide the drawer open silently, checks the magazine and thumbs the safety off.

Another rap, and then a sigh. “It’s Luke. Can you just open the door? Please?”

It’s the ‘please’ that keeps her from diving for the window, or maybe the unexpected waver in his voice. Luke is a cop. Luke is the closest she’s ever seen to a good cop. He’s not likely to shoot her through the door, or have cronies waiting below to shoot her if she escapes.

She doesn’t set the gun down, but she doesn’t point it at his face the moment she jerks the door open, either. On the other side of it, Luke is wearing jeans and a flannel shirt open over a faded t-shirt. He has a gun, too, but after his eyes flick briefly past her toward the apartment beyond, he looks her straight in the eye, ejects the cartridge in the chamber and then the magazine, pockets both, and holsters the pistol.

“I’m not here on official business,” he says quietly. His face looks drawn in, tenser than she’s ever seen him. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“What about?” Izzy asks, wary.

“You alone?”

“Is it any of your business?” Izzy snaps, but the anger fades almost as quickly as it rises. That look on his face. “I’m alone. What do you want?”

She’s expecting something about Clary, something about letting her go, about how Izzy is bad for her, about the position they’re putting him in. She’s been expecting that conversation since the first time Clary brought her home and introduced her and Luke gave her a long, cool, look before saying, “Isabelle _Lightwood._ Any relation to Maryse?” 

She knows he wants her out of Clary’s life. She can’t even blame him, not really. She’s been expecting something like this; she’s halfway expecting a bribe.

What she’s not expecting is for Luke to close his eyes, breathe out hard through his nose, and say, “Clary’s been kidnapped.”

Izzy freezes with her hand on the door frame. “What do you mean, kidnapped?”

“I mean what it sounds like.” Luke glances behind him. He looks tense. “Look, this is not a conversation I want to have standing in the middle of your hallway, no offense. Are you going to let me in or not?”

“Are you going to arrest me?” Izzy says. The retort is automatic, sharp and brittle. _Clary._

“Does it matter?”

She flinches, feels it like a slap, then snaps, “No, of course it doesn’t matter. Please. Come in.”

“Thank you,” Luke says as she steps aside to let him in. “And for the record, I’m not going to arrest you.”

She pulls the door shut behind him, latches it, holsters her gun, and rubs her hands down her arms. It isn’t cold in here, but she feels chilled all the same. “What happened?”

“Someone got into the loft through her window,” Luke says. His tone is carefully bland, but Izzy flinches again all the same. Of course. She’s told Clary a dozen times not to leave it open, but it’s the entrance she always uses, and so Clary never locks it. And something about Luke’s face tells her that he’s perfectly well aware of that. “She nearly got out. They caught her by the elevator. They had a gun.” Off her glance, he says, “Our building has security cameras.”

That explains that, then. “Who?”

“I don’t know. Male, six feet or so. He was wearing a mask. SWAT gear. Fake.” Luke pauses, rubs a hand over his face, then adds tiredly, “or at least I think it was.”

“You have a mole,” Izzy says. And then, off his look, “I might be a criminal, but I’m not an _idiot._”

“No,” Luke sighs. “No, I never thought you were. You ever hear of Edom International?”

Izzy freezes. “Asmodeus. You were going after Asmodeus.”

Luke inclines his head briefly. “We’ve been investigating his organization for months. He’s supposed to be in town this week on a business trip—”

“He never comes to the States.”

“Not often, no,” Luke agrees. “He’s an Indonesian citizen and the U.S. doesn’t have an extradition treaty with them. This was probably going to be the only opportunity we had to grab him. It was a solid plan—”

“Except for the fact that he had a mole in the force,” Izzy finishes. “Which he always fucking does, by the way. I could have told you that.”

For a moment she thinks Luke is going to argue, or at least point out that he has less than no reason to trust the details of his investigations to his step-daughter’s professional crook of a girlfriend, but then he sighs. His posture slumps slightly. “You’re right. Okay? Also, he left this under my windshield.”

He pulls a crumpled piece of stationary out of his pocket and hands it over with barely a hesitation. The paper is heavy, cream-colored, expensive. The tastefully understated logo of Edom International is depicted in red ink at the top and the message below is written in an elegant, looping script:

_Captain Garroway, I hope this message finds you well. I’m sure at this point you’ve had a chance to review the security tapes at your apartment; if not, I suggest you do so at your earliest opportunity._

_Please be assured that Miss Fairchild will be treated with the utmost delicacy and respect while she remains in our custody. Provided, of course, that I and my organization enjoy the same courtesy from you. _

_If all goes well, you’ll be reunited with your stepdaughter at the end of it. I trust that you’ll do everything in your power to ensure that all goes well._

“Pompous son of a bitch,” Izzy mutters after she’s read through it twice. The venom in her tone feels like it could sting her tongue, but her hands are shaking. “He wrote it personally. He must really have it in for you.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Luke takes the letter back and pockets it. He seems calm. His hands aren’t shaking. His voice is steady. He could be completely unmoved, except—

Well. He’s _here._

“He’s lying. About letting her go. You know that, right? You can do everything he asks, call off the raid, and still—” She can’t finish. “That’s how he operates. No loose ends. It’s why he’s still walking free.”

Luke closes his eyes briefly, but there’s no surprise in his face. “I know. You understand why I came to you.”

“My shady underworld connections or because I’m the only person you know who’s definitely not involved?”

“Both,” Luke says, unabashed. “That, and you care about Clary. Or at least I think you do.”

“I love her,” Izzy says bluntly. She doesn’t mean to say it; she’s never even said it to Clary. But it’s the truth, and Luke doesn’t seem surprised to hear it. “And we’re going to get her back. I need to make a few calls.”

*

Raphael insists on meeting them at a bar six blocks from his apartment, and he makes Luke strip to check for wires before he’ll even agree to sit down. Luke doesn’t protest, but he does make an incredulous kind of face and glances around the bar. “What, right here?”

Raphael leans hipshot against the side of the booth and gives him a flat stare. “Or find someone else to run Asmodeus’s financials. Isabelle might be a reckless trusting fool, but I’m not.”

“Yeah, you seem like a real peach,” Luke says dryly, but he starts unbuttoning his shirt all the same. He shrugs it off his shoulders and lifts the back to show bare skin. “This okay? Or do you want me to take my pants off too? Maybe do a little dance, that be enough for you?”

“Raphael, don’t be an asshole,” Izzy adds. Raphael’s eyes snap to her, and then he sighs, acquiescing.

“Fine.” He indicates the booth. “Sit. Did you bring the recordings?”

“Right here,” Luke says, producing a flash drive from his pocket and passing it over as Raphael pulls out his laptop. “Your really want to do this right here?”

“Safer in public,” Raphael says absently, plugging the drive in and pulling up the files. From over his shoulder, Izzy can see footage of the hallway outside of Clary and Luke’s loft, the alley out back, the street in front. There’s a dark van idling by the curb in the latter feed. “Just in case someone—”

He pauses. On the first video, there’s a blur of movement. A slender figure darting down the hall, hair streaming behind her. Clary. She’s followed immediately after by a man, taller, masked and dressed in black. 

Izzy feels her hands curl into fists, nails digging into her palms, as the man grabs Clary, swings her around into the wall. There’s a brief struggle, but it’s a foregone conclusion even before the gun comes out. He’s pressed up against her, face close enough to her ear that he must be speaking. There’s no way of knowing what he’s saying, but whatever it is makes Clary stop struggling all at once. At this angle it’s impossible to see her expression, but—God. She must have been so scared.

Izzy should have been there. Someone should have been there with her.

She looks up at Luke’s face. His eyes are closed, his jaw tight.

“You’ve already seen this?” she asks, although the answer is obviously _yes_. He jerks his chin down briefly, and then Raphael holds up a hand.

“Okay, I have a plate,” Raphael says.

“Yeah, I already ran it,” Luke says impatiently. “It’s stolen.”

“_Cops,_” Raphael says with a disgusted noise. “Of course it is.”

“So what…” he trails off when Raphael holds up a hand, which is impressive enough.

“Asmodeus isn’t going to be lying low in the city,” Izzy says out loud. “He doesn’t have enough of a presence here, he’s not going to be able to secure any facility here to his satisfaction.”

“Exactly,” Raphael murmurs, his fingers flying over the keys. “I’ve got the van heading out toward the turnpike, but once it’s out of the city it gets a lot spottier. You think Jersey? ”

“Or Pennsylvania.”

“We’ll roll the dice,” he murmurs. “Jersey. That’d about suit a pompous, classless sack of…ah.”

“What do you have?” Izzy asks.

“You remember that runner who got picked up outside of Westwood?”

“Oh,” Izzy says, after a moment. “Not Camille, then.”

“Or it was, and they’re working together.” Raphael pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his seat. “He wouldn’t lie low anywhere he doesn’t have an in on the force.”

“Last time he was in the States, he’d just buy out an entire hotel. Pay them off to pull all the staff for however long he’s there. Which is—”

“Easier if it’s privately owned,” Raphael finishes. His hands dance across the keys as Luke looks between them. He starts to open his mouth when Raphael says, in a tone of great satisfaction, “Got it. Railway Motor Inn, apparent mysterious sudden flooding, closed for the weekend, owners just deposited a cool twenty grand—”

“This is a stretch,” Luke says finally. “You get that, right? We have to be sure. Clary’s life is on the line, there is no room for guessing here.”

Raphael glares at him. “Look, you came to me—”

“Both of you shut up,” Izzy snaps. She pulls out her phone, glances over his shoulder and punches in the number on the screen before pressing it to her ear. The first time, it rings into silence. And the second. The third time, someone picks up on the third ring. “What do you want?”

Izzy puts on her ditziest voice. “Oh, _hi_, I’m so glad I caught you, I’d like to book a room for—”

“We’re closed,” snaps the man, and slams down the phone so hard that static bursts in her ear.

“It’s the one,” she says. “Let’s go.”

Raphael puts his hands up. “Isabelle, I love you, but—”

“Fine,” she snaps. Really, she shouldn’t have expected anything different. Raphael hasn’t lasted in this business as long as he has without a keen sense of self-preservation. “Luke—”

He’s already unfolding out of his seat. “They’ve got three hours on us. We need to get moving now. We can talk strategy in the car, but you better be right about this.”

“I’m right.”

“I hope so.” Luke gives her a sidelong glance. “Clary is dead if you’re not.”

Like she needed the reminder. They’re nearly out the door when Raphael calls her name. Izzy turns, blood humming in her veins, and he says, “I’ll keep an eye out. I’ll call you if he moves.”

His deadpan is as perfect as always, but there’s something about his eyes that makes her soften slightly. “Thank you, Raphael.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He waves a hand at her. “Go do your knight in shining armor routine. Get out of here. Your girlfriend needs you.”

*

She doesn’t know how much later it is when the van finally starts to slow, but it feels like they’ve been driving for hours. Gravel crunches beneath the wheels as it stutters to a stop. The doors open, then shut, and slow footsteps round the vehicle. Clary gets up to her feet, hunched beneath the ceiling and feeling unsteady, but when the doors swing open, she’s ready. She lunges forward, shoulders forward and head down, makes impact with a solid body. A moment later she’s landing hard on the gravel, and she gets her feet beneath her, manages to take two blindly stumbling steps before hands catch her arms and drag her back.

“None of that,” her captor says.

“Fuck you,” Clary spits, and he laughs, yanking her to one side. She drags her feet and he yanks again, harder.

“Walk, or I’ll drag you.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you just shoot me? That’s what you’re going to do anyway, right?”

“Those aren’t my orders. Not yet. Not unless you make a nuisance of yourself. So I suggest that you _behave_, and maybe your stepfather will get all of you back instead of your pretty head in a box.”

It’s not the words that make Clary flinch so much as the flat indifference of his tone. She bites back the retort that wants to rise to her lips and allows herself to be manhandled across the uneven ground and up a flight of stairs. A door opens, and she’s shoved through. It slams shut behind her. By the time she regains her footing the lock is already sliding home.

“Behave,” says her captor again through the door, and then footsteps are moving away into the distance. Clary leans briefly against the door and takes a deep, ragged breath.

There’s someone else in here with her. She can hear shuffling movement on the other side of the room. “Who’s there?”

More shuffling, and then a man’s voice speaks. “Ah. Alexander, we have company.”

She squares her shoulders, stands up as straight as she can with her arms twisted behind her back and a bag over her head. Tries to channel Izzy, her fearlessness, her cool confidence. Izzy would be calm and in control even with a musty-smelling bag shoved over her head, Clary is entirely sure.

Clary is no Isabelle Lightwood, though, and her voice sounds squeaky and uneven when she snaps, “Who the hell are you?”

“You first, my dear,” says the man. 

“Magnus,” sighs another voice. Male, a shade deeper and softer. This must be the Alexander that the other man was talking to then. There’s a shuffling sound, someone moving closer to her on the carpeted floor. She flinches back instinctively, and the footsteps stop immediately. “I can get the handcuffs off, if you want.”

“Yeah? What’s in it for you?”

One of them huffs laughter—she can’t tell which, although she thinks it might be the other one. Magnus. It’s Alexander who answers, though. “Is that a no?”

Damn it. Clary grimaces against the cloth over her face. It doesn’t actually inhibit her breathing any more than a thick scarf would, but it _feels_ like it does, smothering and claustrophobic. This feels like the kind of thing that might be a trap, but fuck it. She wants the handcuffs off, if only so she can itch her nose.

“Fine. Do it.”

“Okay,” he says, and steps closer. “I’m going to ask you not to punch me, okay?”

“Fine,” Clary snaps again, and a moment later he steps around her and warm fingers are tugging at the handcuffs. She can’t tell what he’s doing, but it takes long enough that she’s pretty sure he’s not actually using a key, and then the metal comes loose all of a sudden, a clinking rattle as they fall to the floor, and she twists away from him, yanks the bag off her head, and turns, blinking owlishly in the dim light.

It’s a cheap motel room that she’s found herself in, faded wallpaper and a dirty-looking carpet somewhere between green and brown. The curtains are drawn, but she can see a reddish-looking sunset seeping through.

There are two men in here with her. Both tall, dark-haired, dangerous-looking. Although anybody shy of old Mrs. Abramczyk from downstairs would probably look dangerous right now, and at least neither of them is making a move to get closer. The taller of the two is the one who must have gotten her cuffs off; he’s standing closer, hands raised palm-out in an exaggeratedly non-threatening kind of posture.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m Alec. You okay?”

Clary squints at him. She’s completely sure that she’s never seen him before in her life, but there’s something familiar about him all the same. She’s not entirely sure that’s a good thing under the circumstances. “Who _are_ you guys?”

“Quid pro quo, my dear,” says the other man, who’s leaning against the peeling wallpaper on the far wall with a studied sort of grace. He’d look elegant if it weren’t for the pulpy bruising down one side of his face, and his expression is focused and flat despite the languid humor in his tone. “Your name?”

She glares at him, but she can’t think of a good reason not to answer. They let her loose, after all, and this guy at least looks like he’s been through a meat grinder.

And, well. She doesn’t really have a choice but to trust someone. “Clary. Fairchild.”

“Fairchild,” Alec repeats blankly. Then he rubs a hand over his face and glances back at the other guy. Magnus, he called him. “Great. Izzy is going to straight-up murder you.”

“Ah,” says Magnus, his expression softening slightly. “This is the mysterious girlfriend, then.”

“What are you…” Clary trails off, staring at Alec. His messy dark hair and his eyebrows and something about the tilt of his jaw… “Oh, shit. Alec _Lightwood?_”

“Yeah, you’re the second person in two days to react like that,” Alec—Alec Lightwood, Izzy’s _brother_—says wryly. “Guilty as charged.”

“They’re targeting Izzy, then,” Clary says with sinking realization. “I thought—my stepdad’s a cop, and the guy who grabbed me said—but if it’s Izzy, we need to get out of here _now._”

Luke was bad enough. Luke has the entire force to look out for him. Izzy…

Izzy has herself and whoever she trusts enough to accept help from. And as Clary knows all too well, that’s a short list and half the names on it are in this room right now.

“Much as I agree with the sentiment,” Magnus says, “I’m afraid that Isabelle Lightwood’s involvement is probably entirely incidental. This one is likely my doing, and I do apologize for that.”

Clary stares at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Magnus makes a vague gesture. “The Lightwoods aren’t the only ones with unsavory family connections, and one of mine appears to have caught up with all of us. I’m terribly sorry.”

Clary opens her mouth but before she can speak, the door behind her swings open. Magnus’s face and posture stiffen as measured footsteps land on the carpet. A prickle of unease crawls up the back of her neck.

“Now, Magnus,” says the man. His voice is deep and tinged with a dangerous-sounding amusement. “Is that any way to greet your dear old father?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hashtag on Twitter is [#WLLTFic](https://twitter.com/hashtag/WLLTFic?src=hashtag_click) if you'd like to chat there. I'm on Twitter and Tumblr as glorious_spoon.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	4. Family Reunions

“Father,” Magnus says stiffly, stepping forward to put himself in between Asmodeus and the redheaded girl. Clary. It’s a fairly useless gesture, given the half-dozen bodyguards bristling with guns and Magnus’s own rather battered state, but it’s one Magnus can’t help making. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Alec move forward too. Asmodeus’s thin lips turn up slightly in amusement.

“Magnus,” he says. “It’s been too long. Come here, let me get a look at you.”

Magnus sets his jaw and manages not to flinch when Asmodeus’s hands land on his arms, gripping tightly like he’s a horse-buyer checking the quality of the merchandise. “I thought you tried to avoid the States.”

“I do, usually,” Asmodeus agrees, “but when I heard of your terrible misfortune, how could I stay away?”

“How indeed,” Magnus says dryly. “Let me guess. My recent sudden unemployment just happened to coincide with some business trip? You always did like to be efficient.”

“The attitude, on the other hand, I haven’t missed.” Asmodeus eyes him. “I suppose this means that you’re not ready to see sense yet.”

“Nearly getting shot by the Russian mob didn’t exactly put me in a cooperative frame of mind, I’m sorry to say. And you and I have very different definitions of _sense._”

“Regrettable though that was,” Asmodeus says, “I had complete confidence in your ability to manage the situation without undue difficulty. After all, you are my son. And I was right, wasn’t I? Here you stand, hale and healthy—”

Out of the corner of his eye, Magnus sees Alec shift slightly, moving forward, and then he says, “He didn’t look all that healthy when he passed out on my kitchen floor yesterday afternoon. You know, if you’re keeping track.”

Magnus is experienced enough not to wince, but he can’t help but close his eyes briefly as Asmodeus tilts his head. His cool gaze lights on Alec, who’s standing a few paces back, arms folded across his chest, wearing an unimpressed expression that’s either genuine or a strikingly good mask.

“Ah, yes,” Asmodeus says. “This must be the latest boy-toy.”

Magnus does wince at that, the echo of his own words mocking in his father’s cultured tones, but Alec’s expression doesn’t flicker. “I’m the guy who got to clean up the mess you left. There’s better ways to handle a recruitment, you know.”

_What are you doing?_ Magnus thinks, almost frantically. All Alec had to do was stay back and keep his mouth shut, something that the Fairchild girl has thus far managed, although her expression is pinched and furious.

All he had to do was let Magnus handle it. But instead he’s—what, working an angle? On _Asmodeus?_

And the worst part of it is, Magnus doesn’t know him well enough to guess what the plan is, or if he even has a plan. All he can do at this point is hang on and hope it doesn’t blow up spectacularly in all their faces.

Also hope that Alec isn’t about to try and sell him out, and not only because that would definitely blow up spectacularly in all their faces. He _likes_ Alec. He’s known the man for all of a day and he likes him better than most of the people he’s met in the past ten years. Which might be more a commentary on the company Magnus tends to keep than anything else, but still. It’ll break some little piece of his bitter, calcified heart if Alec turns on him now.

“Is that so?” Asmodeus says. He shifts closer, and Alec doesn’t step back. “And how would you suggest I convince my wayward son to come back to the fold?”

“In my experience,” Alec says mildly, “it works better if you make it worth their while.”

“The carrot rather than the stick? Is that what you suggest?” Asmodeus glances at Magnus. His tone is still lightly amused in a way that would put a chill down the spine of anyone who’s spent more than ten minutes in his company. “What do you say to that, Magnus? What sort of incentive might I offer to convince you to take your rightful place as my heir?”

“Nothing,” Magnus says flatly. He isn’t playing this game. “I told you fifteen years ago that I wasn’t interested. I haven’t changed my mind.”

“You see, Alexander Lightwood? This is a conversation I have had with Magnus many, many times. He always did have a stubborn streak.” He pauses, taking in the way Alec’s jaw has gone tense, and smiles. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’m a very thorough man. Besides, you look just like your mother. How is Maryse doing these days?”

“Fine,” Alec says, but there’s an edge to it now. “She’s taken up knitting.”

“Well, there’s not much entertainment to be had in Bedford Hills, I suppose,” Asmodeus says. “But I like you. I do. You seem like a sensible young man. So perhaps I’ll make _you_ an offer instead. I’ll be in town for the next three days. If, during that time, you manage to talk my son into a more… agreeable mindset, there’s a job offer waiting for you as well. If not…” he spreads his hands. “Well. Unfortunately, I can’t leave loose ends lying around to trip me up later. You understand.”

“You’re saying you’ll kill him,” Clary says sharply. “What about me? What did I ever do to you, huh?”

“Ah.” Asmodeus smiles benevolently at her. “You, my dear, are just an insurance policy. Certain members of local law enforcement were getting a little too curious about my affairs, shall we say.”

“Luke,” Clary says, then goes pale. She looks like she wants to slap a hand over her mouth, but she manages to keep herself from actually doing it.

“Just so. He allows me to conclude my business in this godforsaken country with no fuss, I arrange a tearful, joyous reunion upon my departure. No harm, no foul.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Well, that would be very unwise.” Asmodeus glances over the three of them again before focusing on Magnus. He starts to open his mouth again, but before he can speak his phone begins to ring with a sharp trilling noise that makes Magnus flinch. Asmodeus sighs exaggeratedly and slips it out of his pocket. When he glances down at the screen, his mouth tightens briefly, the genial mask dropping away for a second to leave something cold and blank behind.

Then he looks up with a smile. “Well. As much as do love catching up with you, my son, I’m afraid I have to run. Think it over, would you? One of these gentlemen will be staying with you to make sure that you don’t do anything… rash.”

He jerks his chin at one of the men, a white, square-jawed, salt-and-pepper type who looks like he might have come out of a G.I. Joe mold, complete with blank eyes and stamped-on scowl. “If you would.”

The man glances them over with an expression remarkably like Asmodeus’s; maybe the myth really is true that dogs start to resemble their masters over time. “You want me to separate them? We have enough people to secure two more rooms.”

Asmodeus purses his lips thoughtfully, then says, “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. If my son attempts anything unwise…” he looks at Magnus directly. His eyes are just like the ones Magnus sees every morning in the mirror, but the expression in them is flat and cold. “I want the consequences of his actions to be very clear to him.”

The guard makes an affirmative noise, but Magnus knows those words were for him. He nods shortly. Message received.

A faint smile twists Asmodeus’s mouth. “Don’t worry. I won’t be long.”

He sweeps out of the room, taking his guards with him but leaving the guard behind. Magnus sags, then looks back at Alec and Clary and says lightly. “I do apologize for that. Family reunions can be hell.”

Clary lets out a sharp, hysterical-sounding laugh as their guard settles himself wordlessly against the door, gun in hand, scanning the three of them with cold eyes. “I thought my Aunt Gertrude was bad.”

Alec glances at her, and then at the guard before looking at Magnus. Just the one watchdog, then, although there must be at least a dozen guards outside. Asmodeus must be more concerned about an external threat, which would be encouraging if Magnus thought there was any chance of Cat’s people getting here before his father decides to cut his losses and shoot all three of them. “He left in a hurry.”

“Oh,” Magnus says. He meets Alec’s eyes, and just barely manages to keep himself from smiling when Alec’s gaze cuts briefly toward the guard. It seems they are on the same page after all. “I imagine someone was just… rattling his cage.”

One corner of Alec’s mouth ticks up slightly. “Sounds dangerous.”

“What’s dangerous,” Magnus says, moving to the right, away from Alec, “is stepping into a tense negotiation when you don’t know any of the parties involved. I know you’ve been out of the business for a while, but that wasn’t smart.”

Alec moves left, away from him. The guard’s eyes cut toward him, then back to Magnus. “Excuse me for trying to take some of the heat.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing?”

Clary glances between them as Alec takes another step back. Her expression is incredulous. “Are you guys seriously going to have an argument about this _now_?”

“What better time, my dear?” Magnus takes another step. He’s beside the window now, where the curtains are cracked just enough to tell that sunset has slipped away into dusk. None of the other guards are visible from this angle, but they’ll be there. They’ll hear any commotion from inside.

The guard is glaring at him, blue eyes like ice chips, gun still in hand. There’s a radio clipped to his hip, but it’s not on at the moment. Magnus gifts him with a smile, then lets it sharpen as he looks at Alec and adds, “After all, all of our life expectancies just got quite a bit shorter. Best to air our grievances while we still have a chance, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Alec asks. The guard has to turn his head to look at him, and when he does, Magnus moves closer. Alec glances over the guard’s shoulder at him. His posture looks relaxed, but his face is tense.

They’re only going to get one shot at this.

“Hey,” Magnus says loudly, drawing the guard’s attention back to him. His expression is starting to look suspicious, a slight widening of his eyes, as if he’s just realized how much closer Magnus is. As if he’s just realized what’s going on here. “It’s not _my_ fault you were stupid enough to—”

The guard starts to lift his gun, his free hand moving for his radio, and Magnus and Alec both move in tandem, as beautifully choreographed as a dance. Alec’s long arm comes around the guard’s throat from behind, a quick brutal choke-hold that casts him off-balance for the crucial seconds it takes for Magnus to grip his wrist, thumb digging into pressure points to force his grip to slacken. The gun clatters harmlessly to the floor and Magnus kicks it away.

The man makes a strangled choking noise and twists against Alec’s grip, but with one arm over his throat he can’t get enough air to yell, let alone fight back effectively. His complexion is quickly passing beyond red and into purple when Clary darts forward suddenly.

“Don’t—” Magnus hisses, then stops as she unclips the radio from the guard’s belt and yanks it away before he can reach for it. “Ah.”

Alec lets out a breathless noise that sounds almost like a laugh and shifts his grip as the guard gurgles and then goes suddenly limp.

There’s a frozen beat of silence, and then Magnus bends to scoop up the gun and says, “Well done, everyone. Great teamwork. Biscuit, would you be a dear and pass me those handcuffs?”

* * *

The drive passes in stifling silence. Izzy occupies herself by checking her guns, over and over again, but there’s only so much time that can take up. Adrenaline feels like a bitter taste at the back of her throat, and she glances over at Luke’s impassive profile, lit by the headlights of passing cars as the sun sinks down into dusk. They’re getting close. “You know this is going to be a gun fight, right?”

“Yeah,” he says shortly.

“Are you okay with that?”

He breathes out a laugh. “Are you?”

“I’m a professional criminal, remember?”

Luke laughs softly and doesn’t answer. A couple more miles pass in silence before Izzy’s phone starts buzzing. Raphael’s name flashes on the screen, and she thumbs the speakerphone on. “What is it?”

“Asmodeus is on the move. It looks like someone sent in a tip--anyway, one of his warehouses was just busted. Place is crawling with Feds, one of his guys got word out. I traced the call. Good news is, you’re headed to the right place.”

“What’s the bad news?” Izzy asks tightly.

“He has Bane.”

For a second, Izzy actually doesn’t put it together. Then it hits her like a punch to the gut. “Alec.”

“Yeah.” Raphael doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. She knows how Asmodeus operates. She knows the odds of him leaving a witness alive. Her breath is starting to come quick and panicky, and she forces herself to steady.

Alec is quick on his feet. He’s adaptable. He’s a survivor, just as much as she is.

He’s _fine._ She won’t accept any other option. He and Clary are both going to be fine.

“Isabelle,” Raphael says gently, and she clears her throat.

“Anything else?”

“No,” he says. “Just—”

“Hurry, yeah, I got it.” She ends the call. Luke glances over at her, then leans forward to push a button on his dashboard, and red lights start sweeping overhead from the light rig on the roof. He punches the gas, and the truck speeds ahead into the night.

* * *

Between the three of them, they manage to get the guard handcuffed to the toilet and gagged with a knotted-together pair of socks before he starts to regain consciousness. Magnus crouches down in front of him, well out of range of his feet, and watches as he twitches and flails awake.

“Good morning,” he says pleasantly as furious bloodshot blue eyes focus on him. “Oh, don’t give me that look, you’re alive, aren’t you? And as long as you don’t cause any trouble, you’ll stay that way, which is more than I could say if our positions were reversed. We’ll be out of your hair shortly. Just—” There’s a muffled thud from the other side of the room, the wall opposite the door. Beside him, Clary jumps slightly. “Alexander, is anything wrong?”

“No,” Alec grunts. “I think there’s another set of rooms behind these. If we can…” He trails off again. There’s another thud, the sound of something cracking.

“Ah,” Magnus says, understanding.

Clary’s head, which had been turned back toward the room, snaps back toward him. “What the hell is he doing?”

“I’ll explain in a moment,” Magnus says. To the guard, he adds, “Do be a good boy and stay here, will you? I won’t be but a moment.”

As anticipated, Alec is at the far end of the room, heavy silver fire extinguisher in hand, battering at the wall. Sheetrock is already crumbled around his feet, wallpaper hanging in strips. A splintered wooden stud is just visible. As they watch, Alec drives the fire extinguisher into the wall again, then straightens, rolling his shoulders as another chunk of sheetrock peels away. “All good?”

“For the time being.” Magnus hands Clary the gun. She takes it with a start and looks up at him. “Biscuit, if you could—?”

“What?” she says, and then when he nods significantly at the bathroom door, “oh! Right, yeah.”

“Don’t get close,” Magnus adds, warningly, and raises his voice slightly to ensure that the guard hears him. “If he moves, shoot him immediately.”

“Okay,” Clary says, and her grip is steady, her voice cool. An ice-cold soldier under the skin of a pretty redheaded college student. Isabelle really does know how to pick them. It’s almost a shame Magnus won’t be sticking around long enough to get to know her.

“I was right,” Alec says in a low voice when Magnus moves closer. There’s drywall dust caught in his dark hair and his eyelashes, dusted across his cheeks like snow. Magnus reaches up, unthinking, to brush it away, and a corner of Alec’s mouth turns up, startled.

It’s the worst possible moment for a flirtation, but Magnus can't resist. “You had a little something, there.”

Alec laughs softly. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Magnus glances at the battered wall. It’s double-thick sheetrock, layered for sound insulation, but in the end it’s really just a low-end motel; there’s no real way to secure it against anyone with a modicum of creativity. No way other than personnel with guns, which unfortunately Asmodeus has in spades. “Another row of rooms beyond this one, then?”

“Yeah,” Alec says, taking the change of subject easily. “I don’t know if he’s going to have guards on that—”

“Most likely,” Magnus says, grimacing. “My father is nothing if not thorough.”

“Yeah, he seems like a really fun guy,” Alec says, dry as dust.

“He isn’t.”

“I kinda got that.” Alec glances at Clary, at the locked door of their room, then says, “How long do you think we have before he comes back?”

“Hard to say.” Magnus sighs. “He likes to play his little games, but he’s also on a schedule, and it seems that may have been bumped up precipitously. The last time he had his hands on me—well. Let’s just say I didn’t have nearly as many tricks up my sleeve.”

Alec, mercifully, doesn’t ask. “I bet you didn’t have help, either.”

“No,” Magnus says softly. There’s a lump in his throat, which is ridiculous. “No, I didn’t.”

Alec clears his throat, hefts the fire extinguisher, then says, “Well, anyway, I should be able to get through this wall, and then we can check? And if there are guards out there, we can… I don’t know. Create a distraction.”

“Yeah,” Magnus says, letting out a shuddering breath. He casts around the room, then crosses over to heft the hideous nightstand. A drawer swings open and a rather battered-looking Bible lands on the floor with a flutter of thin pages. “Well, in that case, allow me to assist. More hands make light work, after all.”

All told, it takes them the better part of ten minutes to batter a hole through the wall into the room beyond, an ugly green mirror image to the one they’re in. The studs are set close enough that it’ll be a tight squeeze for either him or Alec.

Clary, on the other hand—

“Ah, my dear,” Magnus says, and when she glances up at him, holds out his hand for the gun. “Would you mind switching places? We need a scout.”

She glances beyond him, then nods. “We’re escaping through the _wall_? Is that some kind of super-spy trick?”

“Mostly, it’s a desperate injured spy who doesn’t want to fight a dozen armed guards sort of trick,” Magnus says, taking the gun from her and aiming at the guard. “I’m afraid this line of work is somewhat less glamorous than Hollywood makes it seem. Now, if you would?”

Clary squeezes easily into the makeshift door between the rooms. Her feet are soft on the carpet, although if the noise he and Alec were making battering the wall open didn’t draw their guards, there’s no way that her soft footsteps will. She slips around the edge of the wall, and just twitches the edge of the curtains open. She lets it drop almost as fast, backtracks through the room.

“Yeah, uh,” she says, shoving herself back through the wall so fast that she nearly falls over and Alec has to catch her. “Yeah. There are definitely guys with guns on that side too. And it’s just woods outside, nobody’s going to hear anything if we try to go for help. I hope you guys have a plan B.”

Magnus glances at her, then at Alec, and sees a reflection of his own expression there. “Well,” he says at length. “That just means we need a distraction.”

Alec grants him a sudden sharp grin. “We could use some C4.”

“You are just _full_ of surprises, Alexander,” Magnus says, absurdly delighted. “However, unless you’ve taken to storing explosives in some extremely unlikely locations, I think we may be out of luck on that particular point. However…” he trails off. His gaze lands on a discarded potato chip bag in the garbage can. It’s half-empty, shining with grease. “Ah. I may have a solution.”

Alec and Clary both follow his gaze. Clary’s brow furrows, but Alec nods. “Okay. But unless you have a lighter on you…”

“You want to start a fire,” Clary says a moment later. She catches up quickly. “Is that smart?”

“Not really,” Magnus admits. “Clarissa, if you could be a dear and hold a gun on our friend here again, I need to get this outlet cover off.”

“Oh,” Alec says as Clary digs in her pocket for a moment, coming up with a small, cheap Swiss Army knockoff. She shrugs with one shoulder when Magnus raises his eyebrows at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. Luke’s the one who said a lady should always have a knife on her.”

“If we get out of this in one piece,” Magnus says fervently, “I’m buying your stepfather a drink.”

“If we get out of this in once piece, he’s going to punch you in the face,” she says, but she’s smiling. “Just don’t tell him I helped you start an electrical fire.”

“My lips are sealed.”

It’s the work of a few minutes to get the outlet cover off, the wires yanked out and exposed. Magnus hands the knife off to Alec to finish stripping them with his fingernails, and he’s pleased to see that Alec doesn’t require any direction to start tearing up strips of carpeting, piling them up along with the greasy chip bag that’s to serve as their primary point of ignition.

“Is that actually gonna burn?” Clary asks, glancing back at them.

“Probably not. Or at least, not well. Doesn’t matter. We’re not exactly trying to make a cozy little campfire here.”

“It’s a smoke bomb,” Alec adds, tossing the last of the carpet on the pile. He picks up the Bible that landed on the carpet before, flips it open to glance at the cover page, then yanks out a handful of thin paper to add to the pyre.

Magnus snorts out loud at that. “Not exactly the pious sort, are you?”

“Not so much,” Alec says, and his sudden grin is so sharp and lovely that Magnus is tempted to cross over and kiss him on the mouth right then and there, practicality and professionalism be damned. “You want that, you’ll have to ask my mom.”

“That is not the Maryse Lightwood I remember.”

“You knew her?”

“Unfortunately.” Magnus realizes how that must have sounded a moment later and grimaces. “No offense to present company intended, of course.”

Alec just laughs. Clary peers over at them from the bathroom door. “So, what’s the plan after we set the room on fire?”

“Run,” Alec suggests shortly. He shrugs his shoulders like he’s shaking something off them and reaches to pull the dresser drawer out. It smashes across his knee in a spray of warped yellow-tinted particle board.

“Okay,” Clary says slowly. “No offense but—that sounds like a really bad plan.”

“That’s because it is.”

“Thanks a lot,” Magnus says dryly.

“It _is_ a bad plan. It’s just better than sitting around in here until your dad comes back in and executes all three of us.”

“True.” Magnus sighs, rubs a hand through his hair, and looks back at Clary. “There are woods over on the other side of the road, you said. Right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“If we can get to that, we can use the radio to call it in. Then it’s just a matter of staying ahead of Asmodeus’s employees and hoping that they don’t have orders to shoot on sight.”

“And the odds of that are…?”

Magnus shrugs. “Fifty-fifty?”

Clary gives him a long look, then looks at the makeshift pyre, then back toward the man who’s still handcuffed to the toilet. She doesn’t ask what’s likely to become of him if they set the room on fire and then run for it, which is enough to tell Magnus that she’s on board with this plan. If he were still in his old line of work, it would be enough for him to extend her a job offer.

She wouldn’t take it, he can tell. She might have the kind of unexpected sharp edge that could attract a woman like Isabelle Lightwood, but she’s still a girl with a life and a family. Not someone who deserves to be dragged down into this shit. And Alec—

Alec’s a man who’s lived a good portion of his life in this particular dumpster, and just managed to crawl out of it and make a life for himself. For a moment, guilt rises up to choke Magnus, but he swallows it down without too much trouble.

He’s a practical soul at heart, and the first order of business is getting them out of here in one piece.

“I’ll take those odds,” Clary says, and Alec huffs out laughter, smiling up at Magnus.

“Whenever you’re ready, Magnus.”

Magnus twists the chip bag until it forms a tight seal and reaches for the stripped wires. Metal touches metal in a shower of sparks, and a curling tendril of smoke rises up, the stink of burning plastic, a lick of flame. The light flares brighter as the pages from the Bible catch, and then embers spread across the strips of carpet that Alec tore up. The smoke is thicker now, a choking pungent stink and filling up the low-ceilinged room. In the bathroom, there’s a sound of thrashing and something that would probably be muffled cursing if not for the sock stuffed in the guard’s mouth.

Right on cue, the smoke alarm starts going off.

“Time to go,” Magnus says. He exchanges a glance with Alec, then says to Clary, “After you, my dear.”

Clary slips through easily. It’s more of a struggle for Alec and Magnus, but they both manage it. The air is slightly better here, but only slightly. Clary has already crossed the room to twitch the curtain aside. Behind them are footsteps, shouts, a battering at the door. “It’s clear,” she says.

“Wonderful,” Magnus says lightly. There’s more pounding from behind them. The door isn’t going to hold for long. “Let’s go, then.”

Alec crosses the room in two long strides before Magnus can even move and pulls the door open a crack. He’s cautious enough to peer through it before pulling it all the way open. “Coast is clear. Come on.”

After the choking darkness of the motel room, the fresh air is like a balm. Magnus sucks in greedy breaths as they make their way down the stairs. He can see the dark woods on the far side of the thin mowed strip. There’s not even a fence to scale. Fifteen yards, and they should be—

There’s a shout as they reach the bottom of the stairs, and Clary freezes for a precious second before stumbling down onto the pavement, into the sight of the floodlights.

That wasn’t from their room. That was from the other side of the building. _Shit._

“Run,” Magnus snaps, shoving her forward. She stumbles, stares back at him, her pale face like a splash of white in the floodlit darkness. He shoves her again as another shout sounds out, and she finally, _finally_ starts moving. “Both of you, run!”

Alec's long strides eat up the distance easily. Magnus is a step behind him, then another. Lagging, and not entirely because of his injuries. Asmodeus might intend to kill him at the end of this, but it’s not likely that he’ll be pleased if his lackeys do it without specific direction.

The red ribbon of Clary’s hair vanishes into the darkness beneath the trees. Alec’s tall form is just behind her. Magnus’s lungs feel like they’ve been bathed in acid. He cuts to the side slightly. Not enough for their pursuers to notice the dodge, but enough that he won’t be leading them directly toward Alec and Clary. They’re closing in on him now. He might have another sprint in him, but probably not, and if the other two get loose he’s probably safe. Probably. Hopefully.

Fine. He’s an idiot and he damn well knows it. But they’re probably not going to kill him. At least, not right away. And where there’s life, there’s hope, as the philosophers say.

Another bullet digs a deep groove into the grass at his feet, and he stumbles to a stop, turns, pulling the most charming smile he can manage onto his face.

“Alright, alright,” he says, as lightly as he can through his wheezing breaths. “You got me.”

“Nice trick, Bane,” says one of the men flatly.

“Thank you. But I think I’m out of tricks for tonight.”

“Not just for tonight,” the man says. His smile is cold, his eyes like chips of ice as he lifts the gun in his hand.

Magnus’s heart punches hard against his ribs, sending a rush of useless adrenaline through him. “A little hasty, don’t you think? I’m not exactly an expert on higher level management, but I suspect that executing the boss’s son rather puts a dent in one’s retirement prospects.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? Turns out you _really_ pissed off the old man.” The man racks the slide, calm and deliberate. Magnus glances toward it, then at the man's face. His stance, loose and relaxed. His feet aren’t planted. If Magnus can just cross the distance between them before he gets around to it—

He’s still going to get shot, realistically. There’s no version of this where he walks away. But maybe he won’t be going out alone.

_You stupid, self-sacrificing idiot,_ murmurs a voice in his head that sounds like Cat’s, and Magnus almost smiles.

He hopes she got his package. He wishes like hell that he had a chance to say a proper goodbye, as rare as those are in their line of work.

On that thought, he lunges.

He hits low, slams his shoulder into the guard’s midsection in something that’s a lot more like a rugby tackle than anything he learned in Basic or during any of Ragnor’s tiresome training sessions afterward. The guard goes down under him with a startled grunt, and Magnus grips his wrist, slams his hand into the hard earth and twists the gun away. It’s a breathless moment of triumph before someone else yells, and pain blooms through his shoulder an instant before he hears the shot.

He might scream; he can’t tell. He doesn’t lose his grip on the gun, though, swings it wide, aiming mostly by instinct. It jerks in his hand and pain splinters up his spine, but he’s pretty sure he hears a scream before he drops it. Everything seems too loud, too sharp, and he expects at any moment to feel another bullet punch through his ribs or his skull, the long-overdue end of the illustrious Magnus Bane.

It doesn’t come. Instead, a dark shape slams out of the darkness and tackles the other gunman flat.

It’s a fast brutal struggle in the dark. Magnus feels like his mind is spinning out, a tape on a loose reel, overwhelmed by pain that’s gone hot around the edges, the world washed in red. He hears another gunshot, and a pair of bare feet pass across his field of vision, red hair like a waterfall of fire. Clary. Gun still in hand and eyes blazing. Which means that the person who tackled the gunman—

There’s another grunt, then a sudden sharp motion, and Alec stands, shaking his fist. The other man is an unmoving heap at his feet; Alec is breathing hard but looks uninjured. Magnus stares up at him, dazed, and thinks, _God, you’re beautiful_ and _I could count the number of people who’d do this for me on one hand and have fingers left over_ and _We really should get that drink sometime._

What actually comes out, though, is, “That was incredibly stupid.”

Clary squawks indignantly. “Uh, you’re _welcome._”

A corner of Alec's mouth turns up slightly, and he kneels down beside Magnus, checking the injury with gentle fingers. The smile slips from his face as he prods at it, and Magnus’s vision vanishes beneath a haze of agony for a moment. When he blinks open streaming eyes he doesn’t remember closing, Alec’s expression is worried.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” Magnus says. It comes out in a thin imitation of his usual suave charm, but then, pretty much every interaction he’s had with Alec has been like that. “It makes me feel like I’m going to die.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Clary says. And then, to Alec, “Right? He’s going to be fine.”

“There's going to be more of them in a minute,” Alec says instead of answering. “Can you stand?”

“Of course I can,” Magnus says, although he’s far from sure. There are shouts from the other side of the motel and at least four guards unaccounted for. He’d tell them to run, but that’s clearly a no-go at this point. “Help me up?”

A strong arm hooks under his shoulders, and a moment later he’s pressed up against the sturdy heat of Alec’s body, hauled along almost effortlessly.

“Cover our six,” Alec says shortly to Clary, and she lets out a slightly hysterical-sounding burst of laughter but falls into step behind them. It’s a fast stumbling jog toward the dark line of trees, and Magnus knows that it’s only the haze of smoke drifting across the parking lot that’s kept them from being spotted yet. It’s only a matter of time, though.

Behind them is the sound of an engine roar. Red lights sweep through the smoke-choked darkness. Alec picks up the pace, shifting his grip on Magnus, and it’s only an instant later that Magnus realizes he’s trying to keep his own body between Magnus and their pursuers. It’s almost laughably honorable under the circumstances. Magnus shouldn’t be so charmed. This is how he’s going to die. Arm in arm with the erstwhile heir to the Lightwood empire in some anonymous motel parking lot in New Jersey. It’s probably about what he deserves.

More gunshots. Magnus can’t help but flinch. Alec’s arm tightens around him as they turn toward their pursuers.

Two dark figures are emerging from the smoke, guns in hand. Clary breathes out a soft _fuck_ and starts to lift her own gun, then pauses.

“What are you waiting for,” Magnus hisses. This is why arming civilians is a terrible idea. “Just shoot—”

The gun slips out of Clary’s fingers. She takes a step, then breaks into a jog. One of the two—the taller of the two—starts running as well, and Magnus has just an instant to realize that this isn’t what he thought at all before they slam into each other in a desperate embrace.

“Jesus,” he hears the man say. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, you understand me?”

“I won’t,” Clary says, and she’s sobbing, half-laughing, wiping her grimy face on the man’s shirt. He’s tall, bearded, wearing the posture of a soldier and an expression of such profound relief that it’s almost uncomfortable to see. The aforementioned stepfather, then. 

A moment later, the second figure emerges from the smoke, and he feels Alec go tense against him, breathe out a curse.

“Izzy!” Clary yelps, and reaches out to grab Isabelle Lightwood by the wrist and yank her into the embrace as well. The younger Lightwood sibling looks more disheveled than Magnus has ever seen her, grimy and wan in torn jeans, gun in one hand. She grabs for Clary, presses a hard kiss to her hair, and doesn’t look up until Alec starts forward.

“Izzy,” he says, and she spins toward him.

“Alec, oh my god,” she says, detaching from Clary with what looks like an effort and crossing the distance between them to wrap him into her arms. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

“Actually, I think this one is on me,” Magnus says. His voice is thin and strained, and he’s pretty sure that it’s only Alec’s arm around his ribs keeping him upright. Which is lovely, but he’s also pretty sure he’s going to black out pretty soon regardless. Isabelle’s dark eyes snap toward him, and he adds. “Oh, please, carry on. Don’t mind me.”

Alec’s grip tightens on him, his fingers digging five points of heat into Magnus’s skin through his shirt. The rest of his body feels completely chilled. “We need to get him to a hospital.”

Clary and her stepfather approach, still arm in arm. She looks younger like this than she has since the first moment Magnus caught sight of her in that motel room. Softer. Her stepfather—Luke, the part of his mind that never stops paying attention to inconsequential details supplies, his name is Luke—looks Magnus up and down briefly, then glances at the carnage around them.

“I’ve got lights on my truck,” he says. “Come on. Pretty sure we should get out of here before the boss gets back.”

Magnus has approximately three hundred separate questions, but his brain feels like it’s sinking beneath a thick gray fog, and most of them can probably wait.

“On that point,” he slurs, “we’re entirely in agreement.”

And then he’s tilting forward, the dark grass swinging in his field of vision like he’s on a roller coaster. Someone swears, but it seems to be coming from very far off. Alec’s other arm comes around him to catch him. There’s another burst of splintering pain through his shoulder and the entire world goes dark.


	5. My name is Magnus Bane. I used to be a spy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Thank you so much for your comments and encouragement over the past several weeks--I hope you enjoy!

Magnus is in and out of it most of the way back into town. Alec keeps pressure on his shoulder, a wadded-up t-shirt going damp with blood beneath his hands. There’s conversation going on around him, but he can’t really focus on it. Magnus’s face is grayish, his breathing shallow and his pulse rapid and weak, and when he opens his eyes periodically he doesn’t really seem to be tracking much.

“Hey,” Alec says quietly the third time Magnus opens his eyes and peers up at him with a faint crease between his brows, like Alec is a puzzle that he can’t quite figure out. The truck slows as they pull off the highway exit, Izzy’s profile outlined by the dashboard lights as she glances back at them briefly. “Stay with me, okay?”

“M’not going anywhere,” Magnus murmurs. He lifts his good hand to touch Alec’s face clumsily. “You’re very pretty, you know.”

The laugh that escapes Alec feels raw. “Thanks.”

“Stupid. But very pretty.”

This time, the laugh feels more genuine. “What, was I just supposed to leave you back there?”

“It would have been smart.”

He’s not wrong. “Yeah, okay,” Alec says as the headlights sweep over the sign for the hospital. The ER lot is half-empty, the entrance lit up like a runway strip. “I’m stupid. Keep your eyes open.”

“With this view, how could I not?”

“Are you guys seriously flirting right now?” Izzy asks from the front seat.

Alec shrugs with one shoulder. “You’re the one who was asking about my love life.”

“Oh my god, Alec.” She shoves her hair out of her face as Luke steers into a parking space near the entrance. Clary, who is sitting wedged against the center console half on her lap, starts laughing quietly. There’s a faintly hysterical tinge to it. “Jesus Christ. You’re such a dumbass.”

“You’re one to talk,” Alec retorts as the engine cuts out. The front doors swing open and Clary leans over Izzy to unlatch the suicide door before hopping down.

“Okay, come on,” she says. “This has been an absolutely amazing experience for me to tell my therapist about, but I’m pretty sure Magnus needs stitches. And a cast. And, like, a lot of good drugs.”

Magnus laughs breathlessly. “I will not argue with that.”

“You should get checked out too,” Izzy adds, coming up behind her as Alec helps Magnus upright as carefully as he can. He doesn’t miss the closeness of their bodies, the way Izzy curls herself around Clary. There’s something both affectionate and slightly desperate about it, and he thinks back to Izzy’s light aside about dating the daughter of a cop, how she made it sound like it was nothing all that serious. Just another one of her flings.

Izzy has always been good at deflecting.

Clary herself looks remarkably calm for a civilian who’s gone through what the three of them just went through, but shock hits people in weird ways, as Alec knows entirely too well. He can feel the beginnings of the adrenaline crash hitting him, that shaky lassitude. He already knows he’s not going to be sleeping tonight.

Just as well, really, if he’s going to be spending it in an ER coming up with some convincing lie to tell the staff about how Magnus got shot.

“Can you stand?” he asks Magnus, who is tilted back against the seat cushions. The gray shirt he’s wearing—Alec’s t-shirt—is soaked red around the bullet wound, but the bleeding has mostly stopped.

“That,” Magnus says blearily, “remains to be seen.”

He accepts the hand Alec gives him, manages to slide down onto the pavement without collapsing, but he’s tilting heavily against his side and his breathing is still shallow.

“Okay, come on,” Alec says, wrapping an arm securely around him. To Luke, he adds, “We’re going to need to keep a low profile while Asmodeus is still in the country.”

Luke nods, an unhappy tilt to his mouth. “Yeah. I have a safehouse, but if the force has been compromised, we have to assume that has as well.”

That’s a complication. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Izzy says as she falls into step beside them, arm still around Clary. “I can talk to Raphael, maybe he can—”

She breaks off as a large, dark colored SUV swoops across the parking lot toward them, coming to a crooked halt in their path. Another one is immediately behind it. Alec jerks to a halt so quickly that he can hear Magnus let out a pained grunt, but it’s drowned out by another surge of adrenaline. This was stupid, he thinks with sudden clarity. Coming here, it was stupid. Magnus isn’t in immediate danger of bleeding out, Alec and Izzy between them have the basic skills to stabilize him somewhere safe, but instead, here they are, sitting ducks, and Asmodeus must have come back to find the mess they made of his base and come to the most logical conclusion.

His palms itch for a gun in a way they haven’t in ages. Luke has already drawn his.

“Get back,” he snaps, and Izzy yanks Clary back, toward the truck.

The engine cuts out. The door swings open, and there are heels on the pavement, slow and measured as they cross over to them.

It’s not Asmodeus. It’s a woman, tall and stern in a dark suit, her hair slicked back to a tight bun at the base of her neck and a crisp edge to her collar that practically screams law enforcement. She comes to a halt in front of them, and Magnus sags against Alec. For a moment, Alec thinks he’s passing out, but then he breathes out a laugh, says, “Cat. You got my message.”

“Loud and clear,” the woman says, and something in her—softens, slightly. The faint curve of a smile tilts her mouth. “Magnus, you are more of a headache than every last one of my other assets put together.”

“Is that all I am to you?” Magnus asks. He sounds halfway petulant, fond, and Alec relaxes a little. Luke still has the gun in his hands, but it’s lowered.

This isn’t what he thought it was at all. But still. Alec gives the woman a look. “If you’re the cavalry, you’re a little late.”

She gives him a long, level look in return. “Alexander Lightwood. You’re not the last person I’d expect to be involved in this, but you’re up there. Thank you for keeping him alive. Believe me, I know what a challenge it can be. But we can take it from here.”

Almost involuntarily, Alec’s arm tightens around Magnus. “Asmodeus—” he starts.

“He was intercepted en route to his rendezvous with Ivan Kuznetsov,” she says. “He’s currently headed into federal custody, where he’ll be enjoying our hospitality for a long time to come.”

Magnus lets out a short laugh against Alec’s throat. “It was Kuznetsov then. Should have figured that out.”

“You’ve had a very trying week,” she says, and it’s the gentleness of it that finally convinces Alec. She takes a step forward, lays a hand on Magnus’s good shoulder. “Come on.”

“Bringing me in for a debrief?”

“Bringing you in for some proper medical care where nobody is going to notify local law enforcement that you got yourself shot. _Again._”

“You are never going to let that go, are you?” Magnus murmurs, but he starts to detach himself from Alec, and Alec has to fight an absurd, insane urge to hold him tighter. He forces himself to let go instead, to allow Cat to slip under Magnus’s arm with no regard for her expensive suit. His side feels cold in the night air.

“Not likely,” she says dryly, and glances at Luke. “Detective Garroway.”

“Yeah,” Luke sighs, and finally holsters his gun. “Let me guess. This never happened and if I say otherwise some nice men in shiny black cars will be showing up to turn my life upside-down?”

“Men and women,” Cat says, but there’s still a smile on her face. “We’re an equal-opportunity employer.”

“Good for you,” Luke says, and it’s so bone-dry that someone—Clary, Alec thinks—lets out a little yelp of laughter. “As for my personnel issues—”

“They’ve been handled.” She glances down at her watch, then adds, “Or are in the process of being handled. We’ll keep you apprised if there’s anything you need to know.”

“Not likely, huh?”

“Not really, no.” Her smile this time is more genuine. “I’m glad we understand each other. Now, we really have to be going.”

“Hold on a moment,” Magnus says suddenly. His head lifts, eyes glassy but intent when he looks at Alec. He peels himself away from Catarina, crosses the space between them on unsteady feet, places a hand on Alec’s chest. Alec shivers faintly at his touch, and a slight smile tilts Magnus’s lips. “Thank you, Alexander.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, somewhat stupidly.

“I really do wish we had a chance to get that drink,” Magnus says, and lifts his hand to pat Alec’s cheek briefly. Before Alec can respond—before he can even think of a response—he’s moving away, back to Cat’s supporting arms, back to the fleet of black SUV’s. He doesn’t turn back to look, and Alec just stands there with empty hands and watches as he’s helped into one of the waiting vehicles.

The door slams shut. A rumble of the engines, a sweep of bright headlights, and then they’re gone.

“Well,” Izzy says eventually, into the echoing silence that remains. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

They end up back at the loft. It’s surreal, the four of them crowded around the little round table where Clary and Luke drink coffee and argue over the Sunday crossword. The side of Alec’s t-shirt is still smeared with blood, and Izzy hasn’t let go of her hand since they got back into the truck in the hotel parking lot. The warm pressure feels like an anchor, pinning her in place.

Her mind is strangely calm as she watches Luke putter around, pouring chamomile tea into a set of mismatched mugs. She’s not freaking out the way she feels like she should be, but everything seems distant. In focus, but far away. Izzy—the warmth of her hand, the smell of her perfume, the way the light gleams in her dark hair, which is starting to come loose from its ponytail—just _Izzy_ feels like the only thing that’s real.

Luke sets a mug down in front of Alec, who takes it with a murmured thanks, sips, sets it down. He spins it on its coaster, then says abruptly, “I should get back home.”

Luke nods, placing a cup in front of Clary, then Izzy. He leans against the counter with his own cup. “I could give you a ride, if you want.”

Alec is shaking his head, though. “No. Thank you, but no, I’ll be fine. I should—” He pauses again, scrubs a hand through his hair. Clary watches him surreptitiously. It’s not like they had a lot of time to get to know each other back in that stifled and terrifying little room, but she feels weirdly protective of him all the same. Maybe it’s the way he was with Magnus back in the hospital parking lot; maybe it’s just that with him sitting here at the table next to Izzy, it’s easy to see the family resemblance. It’s not just looks. They move the same way, hold themselves the same way. That same wary tension. Izzy is just a little better at hiding it most of the time.

The way she’s doing now, sipping delicately from a cup of chamomile tea with one hand, squeezing Clary’s hard enough to bruise with the other. Her face is lovely and unreadable.

“You sure?” Luke says.

“Yeah,” Alec says. And then, unfolding out of his chair, “Yeah. I’ll take the subway. I should—clear my head. Thank you, though.”

Luke is wearing a dubious expression. Honestly, he’s such a _dad_ sometimes, even though Alec has to be close to thirty and is built like a brick house besides. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” Alec hesitates, then holds out a hand. “Thank you. You didn’t have to—thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Luke says, shaking his hand with a smile that takes the sting out of the words. Something warm and twisted lodges in the back of Clary’s throat. She feels, suddenly, like she’s about to burst into tears for no reason at all.

She must make a sound of some kind, because Izzy glances at her briefly, her blank expression gentling a little. Her thumb strokes over Clary’s knuckles before she releases her hand to stand and pull Alec into a sudden tight hug that startles him, if the slight abortive flail of his hands is anything to go by. He recovers quickly, though, wraps his arms carefully around Izzy’s shoulders and buries his face in her hair.

“Hey,” he says. It’s quiet enough that Clary knows it’s meant for Izzy’s ears alone. There are layers of meaning there that she’ll never hope to untangle when he adds, “Thanks for the save.”

“Shut up,” Izzy says thickly, and releases him. Her eyes are shining slightly, but she blinks hard and it’s gone like it was a trick of the light. “You’re coming to dinner with us this weekend.”

“Barbeque,” Luke interjects suddenly. Izzy glances back at him, looking startled, and he raises his eyebrows and adds, “I never did get an opinion on my rhubarb pie. I need some feedback before I try and bring that down to the farmer’s market.”

The bark of laughter that escapes Clary’s throat feels wet and ragged, and Luke gives her a smile that makes something in her settle a little.

She pushes her chair back and stands, crosses the kitchen to slip into his arms. He pulls her close and presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she breathes in the smell of cheap detergent and the cigarette he must have snuck at some point tonight, of _home_.

On the other side of the room, Alec is pulling away from Izzy. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Dinner. I’ll be there.”

Izzy punches his shoulder lightly. “You better be. Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah,” Alec says. “You too.”

“I always do,” Izzy says, and there’s an edge to it that Clary can’t hope to read at all, but Alec softens visibly. He reaches for Izzy again, pulls her into a tight, brief hug, then releases her.

“You better,” he says. And then, to Clary and Luke, “I’ll see you guys, I guess. It was—” he breathes out a sudden laugh, like the ridiculousness of it has just caught up to him, but he sounds surprisingly sincere when he adds, “It was really nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Clary says faintly. That edge of hysteria is suddenly very close. “You too.”

A brief smile tilts his mouth. He presses a final kiss to Izzy’s hair, then straightens, tugging his bloody shirt straight, and slips out into the night. Clary has the brief, mildly hysterical thought that he’s definitely going to get plenty of space on the subway tonight, and there’s wetness on her face, suddenly. She scrubs a hand over her cheeks, and Luke squeezes her shoulders a little as Izzy finally turns back from the doorway.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” Clary sniffs, and buries her face in his chest long enough to wipe her wet cheeks on his t-shirt. Luke gives her a look when she pulls back, but he lets her go. “I’m really tired. I’m just—I’m really tired. I’m going to go to bed, I think. Okay?”

“Of course,” Luke says quietly.

Izzy shifts by the doorway. “I can—”

“Stay,” Clary interrupts before she can finish the sentence. “Just. Please stay?”

Izzy pauses, stares at her with wide brown eyes, and it’s all Clary wants right now, just to go to bed with Izzy, to bring her back into her room, that warm safe little space that’s been torn up now—

_—the man all dressed in black, standing by the window where she was expecting Izzy—_

—to curl up with her, to kiss her mouth, to make it _hers_ again. Hers and Isabelle’s. She doesn’t even think about Luke until Izzy’s eyes cut over her shoulder, wary.

Clary turns, a flush rising to her face, but Luke just leans back against the wall and sighs. There’s something half amused about it.

“I’m not going to stop you,” he says. “Just try and get some sleep, okay?”

Heat flares in Clary’s face. “I wasn’t going to—”

He holds up a hand. “I really do not need details. Thank you.” He glances over her shoulder at Izzy, and adds, sounding more serious. “I mean it. Thank you.”

Izzy makes an odd little noise in the back of her throat, but when Clary turns back to look at her, her face is smooth and expressionless, her voice unreadable when she says, “Of course. Anytime.”

“Hopefully it doesn’t become a habit,” Luke says very dryly, sipping from his cup. He looks them over with tired eyes, then shakes his head. “Go on. It’s been a long day. You should get to bed.”

Something warm and fond flares in Clary’s chest unexpectedly. She steps back to Luke, wraps him into a tight hard hug. When she steps back, she’s blinking hard and pretends that she can’t see the answering shininess in his eyes.

“Goodnight, Dad,” she says.

He scruffs a hand through her hair like he used to when she was little, and she has to swallow hard against the lump in the back of her throat as he lets her go. “Night, kiddo.”

* * *

She pauses in the doorway to her room, Izzy right behind her. The window is still open, the fire escape beyond it gleaming with rain. It’s a warm summer night, but it seems like there’s a chill in the air.

Clary swallows as Izzy settles a warm palm on her hip, then says as lightly as she knows how, “I hope Alec made it to the station before that started up.”

“Clary,” Izzy says quietly.

“I mean, he’s gonna get totally soaked—”

“_Clary_,” Izzy says again, tugging her firmly around until they’re face to face. It’s dim in here, too dark to read Izzy’s expression. Clary knows she wouldn’t be able to anyway. Izzy never lets anything show that she doesn’t want to.

“What?” she says, cracking and soft. And then, “I’m fine.”

Izzy opens her mouth, then shuts it, then says, “I hope he was one of the ones I shot. I—” her breath shudders in her throat, and there’s a glint of—something—in her eyes. “I should have been here.”

“It’s not your fault,” Clary says firmly, because she might be feeling sick and shaky and like she wants to screw a fucking plywood plank over the window right now to make sure that _nothing_ else can get through, but that’s one thing she’s sure of.

Izzy looks like she wants to argue, but finally she just shakes her head. “I should have been here.”

“Izzy—”

Izzy shakes her head again, sharply. “Do you have a pipe around?”

“A what?” Clary says, wrong-footed.

“A pipe. Or a piece of wood, like—” She eyes the window, then spreads her hands two feet apart. “This long, or so?”

“I…” Clary trails off, flicking the light on, scanning the room. Her art supplies are a mess, her easel tipped over and splashes of paint marring the floor, but there’s a sturdy slat that was holding up the sheet for one of her still lifes half under the bed. It should be about the right length. She retrieves it and hands it to Izzy. “Will this work?”

“Perfect,” Izzy says. She takes the slat and hops lightly up onto the bed still in her boots, slams the window shut with a crash that makes Clary jump, and jams the piece of wood into the frame. That done, she dusts her hands off and looks back at Clary, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “There. Nobody’s coming in now.”

Clary blinks at her. There’s something wild about her right now, her dark hair in loose tumbles around her shoulders, her dirty hands and torn shirt and the gleam of her eyes. Even in the bright jumble of Clary’s bedroom, she seems like the most vivid thing there. Like she’s more _real_ than everything around her.

She’s so bright and alive and so fucking beautiful.

The thing is, Clary really did just plan on sleeping. Really. Luke is right downstairs, and she just got kidnapped, and she still feels—edgy, wrong and unfitting in her body. But she thinks, suddenly, that maybe Izzy could do something about that. That maybe Izzy could make her safe in her own skin the way she made her safe in her room.

That maybe Izzy could just. Fix this.

She kicks the door shut behind her, then locks it for good measure. She doesn’t turn the light off as peels her t-shirt off.

Izzy stares at her, that darkling gleam in her eyes, and doesn’t ask what Clary’s doing as she unhooks her bra and lets it slide off, as she shoves down her jeans and underwear and kicks them away to stand naked in the warm light of her bedroom. Only then does she breathe out a soft sound and hop lightly down onto the floor. She crosses the room in two long slides to pull Clary into a kiss that holds an edge of desperation and teeth. They’re both breathless when Izzy finally releases her, and that fierce thing is still burning in her eyes, spots of color high in her cheeks.

“Get on the bed,” she says in a low voice, and Clary swallows hard, something hot and sharp slicing through her, and obeys.

She settles on the mattress, face-down on the pillow that still smells like Izzy’s perfume, and closes her eyes as Izzy kicks her boots off and crosses the room softly on stocking feet. There’s the sound of clothing hitting the floor, and when Izzy settles onto the bed beside her a moment later all she can feel is smooth bare skin.

“Are you okay?” Izzy asks softly.

Clary buries her face into the crook of her elbow. The honest answer to that is _no_, and she’s pretty sure they both know that. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

A kiss is dropped on the nape of her neck, hot and quick. “Liar.”

“I’m really messed up,” Clary admits in a small voice. And then, “Izzy, please. Just—please.”

She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for, really, but Izzy leans down, lifting her chin with a firm hand just enough to press a kiss to her mouth. “Shh. I’ve got you.”

Her fingers press in just on the edge of painful, and Clary swallows, closes her eyes, nods as a prickling wave passes over her, leaving her warm and flushed in its wake. “Okay.”

Izzy kisses her mouth again, then pushes her hair aside to kiss down the side of her neck, pausing to suck a mark below her ear where the skin is thin and hot, blood rushing beneath. Clary shudders, squirms slightly, and Izzy pulls back to kiss the mark she just made. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Clary breathes, and this time it doesn’t feel like a lie.

“Good,” Izzy says. She presses her cheek briefly to Clary’s throat. “I thought—” she breaks off, then kisses her again, harder. Her hand, still in Clary’s hair, grips tight for a moment, a bright sparking pain, and Clary feels the breath leave her lungs. The buzzing adrenaline that’s been seeping through her veins for the past several hours twists, becomes slower, sweeter. She sinks into the mattress, dragging in a deep slow breath as Izzy swings a leg over her thighs to straddle her.

Her small, strong hands smooth up and down Clary’s spine, catching on the hollow of her back and the jut of her hip-bones, and Clary simultaneously feels electrified, like there’s a live wire running through her body and so relaxed that she might melt into the bed. Izzy’s mouth finds the nape of her neck again, soft heat and wetness followed by the sting of teeth, and she finds herself jerking against the mattress, rolling her hips down like she can find the friction she needs.

Izzy doesn’t linger, though. She grips Clary’s hips briefly, hands strong and possessive, and then her touch turns gentle. Smoothes up her spine, palms kneading into tense muscles. The pressure of her thighs on the outside of Clary’s hips grounding, knitting her back into this moment, this bed, this, here, with Isabelle.

“Hey,” Clary says, and it already comes out wrecked.

Izzy kisses her again, mouth opening hot and wet over her pulse point. Her hand slides through Clary’s hair, roughly, tugging it away. Not quite pulling, but not quite _not,_ either. Her voice soft in Clary’s ear. “Hey.”

“Are you—oh god. Fuck." Izzy’s fingers slip between her legs. She’s almost embarrassed at how wet she is just from this. Rough callus catching at her skin, not enough pressure, not _enough—_ there’s an embarrassing whine in the back of her throat. “Izzy, please. _Please._”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Izzy kisses her again, her fingers sliding between the slick folds of Clary’s labia, ghosting lightly over her clit and then pulling back when Clary grinds down, chasing the friction. Her breath is hot on Clary’s neck. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” Clary says immediately. “You, I need you, Izzy, _please_, I need—” her voice breaks off again as Izzy’s fingers slip back down, purposeful this time, a sweet drag against her clit then dipping down to curl inside her where she’s already so wet. She grinds down and this time Izzy doesn’t pull back. Her mouth opens against Clary’s throat, her other hand soothing against her hip as she lets Clary ride her hand. It doesn’t take long for that rolling pleasure to break, and Clary shoves her face into the pillow in a vain attempt to smother the sounds that come out of her mouth as she comes around Izzy’s fingers, shuddering. She hears Izzy’s breath catch in her ear, the drag of her breasts against Clary’s back, and then she’s leaning down to capture another kiss from Clary’s mouth.

“Can you go again?” she asks when they finally break apart, and her fingers curl inside Clary.

Clary clamps her teeth around a high moan as pleasure sparks up her spine. “Oh, god. Yeah. Yeah, please.”

Izzy kisses her mouth, then pulls away to push her onto her back, her legs sprawled out so there’s room for Izzy to settle between them. She doesn’t take her time about it the way she usually does, just buries her face between Clary’s thighs, tongue licking hot and rough over her folds, her clit almost too sensitive. There’s an edge of pain to it, bright and sharp, and it’s so good that Clary cries out involuntarily, jerking up against her. Izzy pushes three fingers into her, slick and easy, and then a fourth, and the stretch of it, her hot mouth sucking hard is enough to make Clary shatter again.

She’s barely come back down before she’s grabbing at Izzy, hauling her up to kiss her rough and messy. Izzy moans into her mouth, and when she pulls back her eyes are wide and dark, her mouth wet. She looks completely undone, and Clary has to breathe through a breaking wave of sudden tenderness, to kiss her again.

“Let me—come here,” she says, nonsensically, and grips Izzy’s ass, her hips, pulling her up. It takes a second for Izzy to get what she’s trying to do, and then she breathes out a shaky laugh, lifts up to straddle Clary, palm braced against the wall as Clary slides down between her legs.

She’s already so wet, and the high desperate noise that she makes when Clary licks her open is so hot that Clary has to rub her thighs together, press her free hand down between her legs.

“Ohgod, fuck,” Izzy babbles as Clary sucks on her clit, pushes a finger into her and presses back, all pulsing heat. “Clary, god. Fuck, please—” Clary hums against her, then sucks lightly on her clit and Izzy cries out, slams a palm against the wall, and comes apart pulsing around her. Clary can feel the shuddering aftershocks sparking up her spine as Izzy swears again, softly this time, and collapses onto the mattress next to her.

For a while they just stay like that, breathing together. Then Izzy makes to sit up, kicking at the roiled sheets, and Clary reaches for her without even thinking, settles a palm on her bare hip, feeling the heat of her skin. “Hey,” she says. “Come on. Stay here? Just for a minute.”

Izzy hesitates for a heartbeat that feels like a lifetime, then flops back onto the pillow. “I’m all gross and sweaty.”

“Stay,” Clary says again. Her fingers press into warm skin, and Izzy is flushed and gorgeous. Her hair in disarray and her mouth soft and swollen, lipstick kissed away, and she still looks like she’s a breath away from leaving. Like a wild animal in a trap. Clary gentles her touch as much as she can, feels a breathless shiver of hope when Izzy doesn’t pull away. “Please stay. I’m all gross and sweaty too.”

“No,” Izzy says finally, and rolls toward her, the shift of her hips settling against the mattress, her hand lifting to card the hair off of Clary’s face. The softness of her expression, her dark lovely eyes. “No. You’re beautiful.”

“Stay,” Clary says again, and Izzy buries her face into her shoulder and nods. Her hands are tight, and Clary cards a hand through her long hair and pretends that she can’t feel the dampness of tears against her skin.

They fall asleep like that, naked and curled together in Clary’s childhood bed. Clary knows that tomorrow morning she’s going to face Luke’s amused and judgemental deadpan over the breakfast table, and there are still the distant echoes of fear settled into her bones, but for now, just for now—

Izzy is here. They’re both here, together.

* * *

Epilogue: November

“I’ve made a decision,” Izzy says firmly. Raphael eyes her across the table, then sighs, pushing one hand into his sleek hair.

“Okay,” he says. “Can we order first? I feel like I’m going to need a drink to get through this.”

“Fine,” Izzy says, without much grace, but she waits until he’s acquired a double scotch and is sipping from it with a dubious expression—whether it’s from the quality of the liquor or Izzy is up for debate, although her money is on both—to say, “I’m thinking about going back to college.”

“_Dios mio_,” Raphael sighs, but he doesn’t sound surprised. In fact, there’s the faint edge of a smile as he sets his glass down on the coaster, and Izzy feels herself relax, just a little. She hasn’t talked to anyone about this. She hasn’t even told Alec or Clary yet. And she’d never admit it out loud, but Raphael’s opinion matters. “What for? Please tell me you’re not planning on becoming a lawyer.”

She snorts out loud at that. “No. I was—” she breathes in, then out. Spins her glass around. There’s no reason for her to be nervous about this. Raphael is a friend. She can trust him with this, this one small private dream that she’s never shared with anyone. Alec might have guessed once upon a time, but that’s just because they grew up in the same houses, went to the same schools, bickered over the dinner table with Izzy correcting his Bio homework even though she was two grades below him. “I was thinking about pre-med, actually.”

He doesn’t laugh. He looks at her over the rim of her glass for a long moment, then tilts it to clink it against hers. “I suppose I should have guessed you’d never do anything by half-measures.”

Izzy shrugs halfway. “Yeah, well. You know me.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“You make it sound so bad.”

“No,” Raphael says, and he’s smiling, a rare genuine smile that warms his face. A moment later, he reaches across the table to squeeze her hand, and Izzy squeezes back, an embarrassing lump in the back of her throat. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you,” Izzy says, and swallows, retrieves her hand to wipe at her eyes before can actually cry right here in the middle of the pub.

Raphael very pointedly looks away until she’s got herself back under control. Only then does he say, “What does your artist think about all this?”

“Clary, you mean?” Izzy says dryly. He shrugs a little. “Like you don’t have a dossier on her going back to kindergarten.”

“What can I say,” Raphael says unrepentantly. “I’m thorough.”

“That’s one word for it,” Izzy mutters fondly. “No, I haven’t told her yet. Or Alec. Or anybody, actually, other than you.”

“I’m honored,” Raphael says, and it’s as dry as bone but he actually sounds completely serious. He hesitates, spinning his glass on the coaster. “How is he doing, anyway? We haven’t spoken since…” he trails off, because that’s not something that really needs an explanation. “Well. You know.”

“Yeah,” Izzy sighs. Alec’s abrupt exit from the family business wasn’t easy on any of them. “He’s… okay. I think. You know Alec. He plays it close to the vest.”

“Yeah,” Raphael says, and tips his glass at her. “Must be a family thing.”

“Yeah, well.” Izzy leans back in her chair and takes a long drink. Something in her seems to have settled. Like the world before her is expanding, becoming lighter. Some tightness that she got so used to that she forgot it was there at all starting to loosen, just a little. “Maybe it’s time we started working on that.”

Raphael laughs out loud, draining his glass. “Better late than never. Another round? We still haven’t toasted your new career path.”

“I haven’t even got an acceptance letter yet,” Izzy mutters, but she’s smiling. “Yeah, okay. Another round.”

“To new beginnings,” Raphael says once their drinks have been delivered, and Izzy grins, leans across the table to clink her glass against his.

“To new beginnings.”

* * *

A chilly, colorless sunset is slanting through the dusty windows and gleaming on the metal fixtures by the time Alec gets off the phone with Izzy and slips back out to the front, feeling vaguely guilty about leaving Maia alone even though the after dinner rush has mostly tapered off.

She doesn’t look too bothered about it, anyway, just tosses him a rag that’s mostly clean. “Espresso machine is acting up again. Was that your sister?”

“Yeah,” Alec says, flipping the rag over his shoulder and going to the machine, which is still dribbling brownish liquid. “What the hell did you do to it?”

“Don’t look at _me_,” Maia says. “That fucking thing is possessed. I’m taking my fifteen, if that’s cool with you.”

“Go for it,” Alec says absently. He rattles the machine slightly, makes a face when more half-brewed coffee dribbles out of it. Yeah. Probably he’s going to actually give up and buy a new one at some point. Maybe he can talk Izzy into a donation when she and Clary stop by later. He’s helping her girlfriend move in with her next weekend, that has to count for something…

Another tap sends a shower of grinds to the floor, and he steps back before they can end up on his shoes. Behind him, the front door swings open. A rush of cold air carrying the scent of snow slips through the warmth of the shop as footsteps approach the counter. Hopefully whoever it is is just after pastries or drip coffee, because Alec is pretty damn sure this thing has given up the ghost for good.

He raises his voice slightly. “Sorry, hang on just a second and I’ll be right with you.”

“Take your time,” says the man at the counter, sounding warmly amused. Alec freezes, then straightens slowly.

He recognizes that voice. The warmth of it, the teasing lilt. He’s given it a lot more thought over the past few months than he probably should, considering that he knew its owner for all of a day. Ships passing in the night, or what the hell ever, but he can’t stop his heart from thumping sharply in his chest as he turns.

On the other side of the counter, Magnus smiles at him.

He looks softer. His hair is longer, styled into a fashionable kind of pompadour, and he’s wearing silver cuffs in his ears, a neatly tailored jacket open over a silky-looking shirt. His arm is still in a sling, but other than that he looks… good. He looks amazing, actually.

There’s a wary edge to his smile that vanishes when Alec smiles helplessly back at him.

“Take your time,” he says again, and it sounds almost hopeful now. “I’m in no hurry.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/glorious_spoon) and [Tumblr](https://glorious-spoon.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!


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